Stoned Cold Killer
by Campfire Burning
Summary: Popping heads, collecting bounties, farming w33d-headhunting used to be easy for gentle-natured killer D.P. BENET. But when an execution goes awry, D.P finds himself the target of a Hyperion conspiracy, the outcome of which will change the fate of Pandora. Set against the backdrop of Borderlands 2, STONED COLD KILLER features a cast of colourful characters both new and old.
1. Chapter 1: Bounty Board

**1. **

**BOUNTY BOARD.**

It kills. That's what it does. That's what it's for, y'understand. That's the whole danged reason it exists.

Now, don't you look at me as if I'm nothin' but a stoned cold killer, 'cause Mr. D.P Benet-glad to make your acquaintance-he's got hidden depths. I got my medicinal blunt hanging from my yapper here. I got a mind that, well, some say it wanders, but I'm quicker on the trigger finger than they are. Yes sir, this finger's gotten me outta more hot shit than I care to remember. That's why I feed it with Tediore.

"Tediore?", you ask. Sure, they're cheap. Got themselves a reputation as bein' a lower class sort of gun.

But Tediore got that reload locked _down._ Never mind that this sucker's corrosive, (which she is) or that she's got a zoom so powerful I can count the nose boogers in my mark's head 'fore he's had a chance to eat 'em. No, the thang I like best 'bout Tediore is I can pop heads like _snap. _Smooth 'n' quick release. Body on the floor. Fresh new bullet in the chamber whilst my next kill's still blinking. "Where'd my best buddy Shane go?" he says. Guess you'll find out fer yerself soon enough.

I call my gun Betsy. Betsy's kind of pretty.

And the spray-that's the acid spray rather than arterial-is just as cute. When I pull Betsy's trigger and ventilate your head your brain melts like ice cream in a Fire Skag's fart. Imagine a row of 'em, all bursting like flowers, pop pop pop-and as if that ain't enough, y'gots your grenade effect reload to clear away the stragglers, that _je ne c'est quois_ you only get with a Tediore. That fresh new bullet aimed for your head? That barrel, that scope? _Teleported in_, no expense spared. Sure, you gots to wonder, this new gun, is she _really_ Betsy? She looks enough like her, I guess, though you can never be sure. Same with the New-U's that gets u back on ur feet once ur dead. Is this the real me? Is this my real gun?

Who the fuck knows, you know?

I guess questions like this is why they calls me _D.P_. Like, 'D.P., your thoughts is so _deep, _your thoughts is so _deep _and your you-know-what is so _long_.'

An' me and Betsy is like, _thank you_ kind lady, now shift your keister to the right if you please, you're blocking my damn shot.

Matters like this is what I'm thinking 'bout when out on the job. We all got jobs need doin', checklists long as your you-know-what. Making money off the _man_-or takin' it out his pocket once he's dead. Hey, a killer's gotta earn a living. Where else can a guy like me make his scratch, know wh'u'm saying? Not all of us gets to be fancy-ass mechanics in fancy-ass floatin' cities; some's of us gots to, you know, do the grunt work.

Now, I sure as hell ain't a vault hunter. Ask me, you can piss on that shit out a two-foot pee-pee. Oh, I don't _begrudge_ those that does, though I can't help but wonder: do them's like that Roland dude or that chick with the magic rack think of themselves as _he-roes? _I mean, do they think they're doin' us all a favour, bringing the wrath of Handsome Jack down on our heads? Lissen: I hate that fella as much as I hate them tease-girls that looks of age but ain't, but I got more sense than to catch his ire. I ain't even fond of hailstones, let alone them robots of his raining down from the goddang _moon._

Naw, think I'll leave that bull-hockey to professional idjits, _a.k.a._ yer bona fide vault huntin' types. Good luck tryin' to find your lost Pandoran treasures; I'll leave ya ta get on with it, and make my livin' settlin' scores more down-to-earth than yours. Like I said, I'm a killer. I ain't no he-ro.

So this morning the bounty board has the usual mess of hunter-gatherin' for the newbs, and a few high-end seek 'n' destroys for them as has less sense than old D.P. here. Don't want to disappoint any o' you would-be wives and sidekicks, but D.P.'s a loner. Tried settling down once. Cramped my style, threw off my aim. Said she was pregnant, too. "You ain't with child," I says, "You're just fat," but she ups and responds with "Nuh-uh D.P, I'm pregnant as hell, and my daddy an' his shotgun have something to propose to you, you dirty sumbitch." Ever tried to outrun a bandit technical with your underdrawers round your ankles? Ain't no picnic, I can tell you. Got friction burns all over my you-know-what, on account of it draggin' in the dirt.

But one assignment catches my eye. "Escaped convict," it says, "Seeks professional killer for vengeance-related purposes." And then there was, like, a bounty came after it with almost too many zeros.

Ever wonder what comes after a billion credits' reward? Like I said, I'm a thoughtful man.

So I suit up and get Betsy good 'n' loaded 'fore we hit the highway. We follow the address, meet our liaison at this outhouse way out west that for some reason's got shields stored in it. He's just dropped a deuce when I get there; I find him bucklin' his pants, though whatever he's hiding down there can't be any uglier than his mouth. If assholes had teeth-and who's to say, Pandora's a big-ass place, maybe far down south they got critters with fangs in their rectums and eyes in their armpits-he'd be in bad need of a dentist. I mean, sure, I execute folks for cold hard cash, but I floss just like every decent human being.

"You'll excuse the stench,' he says, buttonin' his fly. Only got the one good hand, th'other's like a lobster claw. Don't stare though-ain't ya'll gots no manners? "I ate some roadkill that disagreed with me. Right before I runned it over, now I think about it. Shoulda' took my warning then; varmint's takin' vengeance from the grave."

"You wanted somethin' killing?"

"Yassir, I did. Some_one_, as a matter of."

He clues me in.

I won't bore you with the details. It's an epic, tragic tale of love and loss, th' kind ya might find on an old timey movie reel 'fore they all got full of tittays an', like, who can jam the most random shit up his or her butthole. I always did like the style they had in old movies. You can't buy class like that, though lord knows I've tried. Marcus, that no good gun-runnin' sumbitch, gave me all manner o' funny looks when I asked him to source me some old costume befittin' my guns. He gets back to me like a week later. "Top het." he says. "3,500 dollar."

"You ticket-scalpin' no good fer-3,500? I could get me another Betsy with cash like that!"

"3,500 dollar. High demand for top hets nowadays. Popularity soars."

"On account of what?"

"On account of you enlisting my services to find you a top het. 3,500 dollar."

It's crumpled and dirty, and I think Marcus sat on it by accident nine or ten times, but dang if it don't look sharp on me. _Clothes maketh the man_, I'll tell you what.

"Now let me level with you-uhh, insert yer name here."

"D.P."

"Let me level, D.P. You 'n' me are men of the world. We are men that gets shit done, you dig?"

I've done some digging in my time. There's some as plants flowers; I plants bodies. They don't grow none once they're in the ground, but that's fine by me. I heard rumours o' some that does, on an island out in the bumfucks. I get a choice, I'd prefer the dead to stay dead.

"Yassir, I dig."

"Good," says the dude. "Truth of it is, I wish this weren't the case. I don't want this poor girl dead anymore'n I want spiderant babies nesting up in my ballsack." That lobsterhand scratches his crotch, sends something scurrying into his pubic region. "But nature don't say no pleases nor thank-yous. Some things just has to be, you dig?"

I dig.

The shit-toothed asshole smiles cheek to cheek. "Moment I saw you with my pants round my ankles I knew folks like us could do business," he says. "Now, if you please, mosey on over to these coordinates and headshot the bitch."

So here I stand with my dick in the wind, and ain't it a pretty sight? Betsy's got her dander up, I got a bead on the window o' the homestead of my quarry, and my trigger-finger's got one helluva hard-on.

Something you oughtta know 'bout being a sniper: everything I just said, every detail from A to Z, that's all important as _shit._

By which I mean, if things is off, if it don't feel right, if you mess up your order, if you skip so much as a step, it can all backfire right in your goddamned face. You ever eat a bad taco and have your colon spurting out yer behind, and your head was 'tween your legs like you was trying to suck your own pecker, and poop went fizzin' all over your eyeballs and right up your nose, an' it was like shakin' a bottle of Faygo Ultra with your thumb over the neck 'cept there's chunks of _poblano queso_ in your eyelashes, an' . . .

Well, it ain't never happened to _me personally,_ but it _did_ happen to a friend of mine or somesuch, and he says it's pretty much the worst thing that ever happened up in his face.

Now where was I? Right, the check list.

_Wind_. That's pretty much the first thing you check 'fore pulling the trigger. I mean, first you need a target, but if you don't have a target why would you be firing a sniper rifle in the first place? And you need a good place to hole up, somewhere with enough cover that when Mister Christopher down there starts spouting brains from his nose his buddies don't immediately pick you out of your surroundings and return the goddamned favour.

But wind's important, too. Like, what direction's it blowin' in, how fast's it goin', are you upwind, downwind-some of these mutated sumbitches have a sharp sense of smell, and when you don't bathe too often on account of bad memories of Momma making you soap out your pee-hole for calling Mrs. McKenzie a c-word, the way the wind's blowin' matters.

It, uh, also blows your bullets about 'n' stuff.

What I do is drop a little dirt or snow, see where the wind takes it. Or look for clues, like is my you-know-what being blown north, 'cause that's a crazy strong wind if it is, like, a tornado or some shit.

Then you hunker down, get your eye good and flush 'gainst the sight an' draw your goddamned bead. You gotta see it in your mind, like, _use the force_ and all that shit. You need to be on target, so when your target starts moving-_and he will-_you know 'zactly where he's gonna be. Ain't nobody just stands at a window with a bullseye on their pecker. They'll be bobbing and weaving, dancin' the goddamned hokey pokey and being everywhere your sight ain't. If you find a mark who stands still as a stogie waiting for you to pop his guts out, there's a strong chance he's already dead and gravity just ain't heard about it.

But know where your target is, even when your eyeball can't see him, and a whole world of possibility opens up to you. They got bullets now that'll punch through dirt. Guy goes into his cellar for a bottle o' _rosé_ and _bam_, you punch him a new sunroof. Mosta these idiots make their houses outta iron so rusty you could piss through it. If you know where you're gonna urinate there ain't nowhere a guy can hide.

Lastly but not leastly, if you're gonna snipe, you need to get it _up. _

Some folks like to 'ccuse me of exaggerating the length of my you-know-what. Ask me, some folks got a case of the jealous-Es.

But my gun, ain't nobody disagreein' 'bout her length or girth. I might be a human tripod, more or less, but she's _on_ a tripod. See what I'm sayin'?

I'm talkin' bout fucking, y'all. I mean, jeez, c'n I make it anymore obvious?

I stroke the trigger here, stuff shoots out over here. There's, like, body juices splatterin' all over the carpet. Don't none of it work 'less you got a hardon long as the Tundra express. You gotta _need_ this kill, man. Boy, girl, bot, skag-don't make a turd of a difference. You get up on Betsy with yer you-know-what swingin' and you ride that piece of tail 'til everyone in the room's deader'n a pecker at an old folks home.

Sometimes I like to put on some romance. Dash o' cologne, vase o' flowers, put down a blanket like we was havin' a picnic. Betsy, she responds real good to shit like that, 'specially when I'm looking fine in my top hat-which I surely do now I've knocked Marcus's assprints out of it; swear to god I'm gonna kill that sumbitch.

I'm dressed all fancy for today's kill. The whereabouts are in my ECHO, 'long with some smooth jams and indecent imagery for the long and lonely nights. This is the spot, this hovel with the window box, so I'm up a mountain of scrap picking the best nest with the clearest view. It's almost nightfall by the time I get here. Some o' those buzzard thangs is up by the stars, pilots wasted, gunnin' down Rakk. Elsewise it's real peaceful. Scent o' flowers in the wind, like daffodils, or some shit. Beautiful red sundown, nearing purple by the horizon. Even the wind's real gentle. Ain't gonna put much of a spin on Betsy's bullets. Ain't gonna be seen. Ain't gonna get caught.

Dick's hard. Chest to the ground. Betsy racked up and ready to roll. It's a little warm in my killing clothes, but I need my knee pads, kevlar and whatnot. Places like this, tetanus'll finish you off.

Like Pandora's best artist-an' if killin' ain't an art I don't know what is-I draw my bead.

It's a shame. She's pretty, this one, almost as pretty as Betsy here. Looks kind of in a daze, like she just woke up, 'cept this tired smile keeps crossin' her face like she just remembered it was a holiday. Grillin' outdoors. Beers with friends. I remember how that used to be.

Got a nice clean line past her mailbox. Real cabin in the woods shit, like something out of a fairytale. Way my boss described it, this lady down here ain't nothing but hate, spit and bitch-craft, but you'd never know it to look at her, appearing an' disappearing 'tween the windows, collecting shit and droppin' it off-tidyin', I guess. She looks like a sleepwalker having the dream of her life.

But dreams and dollars'll pay my wages. Dreams alone? Well, we all gotta wake up sometime.

Nice and tight on her head now. Place is a _mess_. Clothes all over despite her comin's and goin's. I ain't no neat freak but a dude's gotta have standards: you don't shit where you eat an' so far as I can see, there's a fair amount of stains in them clothes. Orange and brown, the united colours doody.

An' it's like I can hear an alarm clock tryin' to wake _me_ up, but I'm raging for this anonymous poor girl and Betsy's green with envy. A job's what it is. I'm stoned; I'm cold; I'm a killin' machine.

"Now now, baby." Two pound eight on a three pound trigger. Crazy rich bastard, here I come. "You know I only have eyes for you."

And that's when things turn to shit.

She bends, but I can follow. She dips, but I can shoot. And I'm stroking Betsy til' she yips like a pup, and just as I does I sees it: him, her, whatever.

The baby the girl's carryin'. The baby in her arms.

Got enough sense to lean on the butt while my dumb finger pulls. The shot goes, well, not so sure I should admit to this, or that it even counts seeing as it was deliberately mis-aimed an' all, but the shot goes _awry_, over the window, holing the lintel, shatterin' some bottle on a shelf on the far wall, exitin' _through_ the far wall and it's adios amigo, I'm _out of there._

The mother sees the exit-hole, sees the lintel, _sees me_, and she dives to the floor.

A second later, the baby starts bawlin'.

Now, I know my protocol. Y'ever see some snipin' hero name of Mordecai? Was he drunk as an sorority when you seen him? Thought so. Only time y'ever see Mordecai is when he's three jugs down an' the planet keeps spinnin'. If he _weren't_ so drunk, he'd be a ghost. Like, people'd lose their heads and you'd put it down to bad Chinese. The very best snipers, you don't even know they're there 'til you're up in heaven getting a God's eye view of the playing field.

That's usually how I am: silent and deadly, but for the clangin' of my big brass gonads. But there's something about a baby's cryin' that gets under your skin. Some folks, it just makes 'em want to hurt the kid all the more.

But shit, despite of the size of my pecker I'm still a human being. Killing machine I may be, but with the exit hole smoking and the window pane starting to dissolve, all I want to do is get down there and apologise.

And when you're in the middle of making a hit that, _mi compadres_, is a real dumb idea.

For a start, turns out mama's got a gun of her own. Ugly thing, 'nother Tediore, 'cept where Betsy's a princess this one's a serf.

Thing about serfs: they revolt.

Skid down the last few feet of the junkpile as the first round just misses. Blows tin cans, rusty old car doors 'n' whatnot into shrapnel, disrupting the whole equilibrium of the pile. All of a sudden there's an' avalanche lookin' to bury me, and still she's reloading, one round per mag, and pointin' and shootin' and fuck, close enough for kisses.

"Wait a minute!" I yell. Hot metal in my sock, burning my ankle. Pick it off, fling it down. Rumbling close behind

"'Hey wait' my asshole." The gun butt's against her shoulder; she squints down the sight and _bam_, shot three throws Betsy into the dirt.

"My baby!"

"_My_ baby!" She hurls her Tediore gun to one side where it spins off in the brush. _Dry_ brush. Dry brush likely to catch fire brush.

The empty gun explodes and a newer model-or is the same one? Guy could go crazy thinkin' 'bout such-appearsl just a whirl of light then the shotgun's in her hands. Those're some hard-looking hands at the ends of her wrists. Raggid nails, powder burns, cuticles like you wouldn't believe. "One more step," she says. "An' I blow your worm of a dick to smithereens."

Barrel pointing at my nethers. Shitload of fast-talkin' to do.

"Ma'am, if you'd please just lower the weapon, I kin explain."

"Like hell I will. What you doin' here? Who sent you? An' what's up with your voice?"

"I've just got a deliberate way of speakin' is all. Saves me stumbling over my words."

"Yeah? Well it makes you sound like a retard." High colour up in her cheeks, and she's kind of pantin', an angry angry woman. The junkslide's slowed to a trickle-it's precarious as hell but it's stopped for now-but the brush has caught an' there's smoke in the air. Her gun barrel wavers; wavers even more when from behind her baby starts cryin'.

"I hear that a lot, ma'am. Figure I more than make up for it in other areas. Now, s'far as I can tell you're under a lot of stress. Would that be correct?"

She licks her lip, feverish, like. "What's it to you?" Then her head shakes. "An' where'd you get off, asking questions? See this shooting stick?" She jabs it t'wards my special area. If there was a bayonet on its front I'd be gelded by now. "_This_ is my conch shell. Means _I _ask the questions."

"Yes ma'am, I apologise. An' if you don't mind me takin' liberties with the direction of this _tete-a-tete_, I'd like to gift you with my moniker and current purpose. My name's D.P. I got paid to off you, by a man by the name of-"

She laughs as I tell her.

"Oh, _course_ you was. That sumbitch." There's even a little fondness in that laugh, a little roll-of-the-eye, like it's all a dumb game an' no one told me the rules.

Then she squares up for the headshot.

"Well, Mr. D.P. When you see him in hell, be sure to tell him Maggie May sends her regards."

'Less you have the cat-like reflexes of yours truly, there ain't no protests quick enough to stop a pulled trigger. Guess I coulda jumped to the side, grabbed that wobbling gun-barrel, played the old "Holy shit, is that Crawermax?!" card. But I was feelin' a certain serenity, like I deserved a gunshot to the face. I even see the cartridge split in slow motion, into halves sharp and rusty as the dirt at my feet. Lots of places here grow a scrubby kind of plantlife, mean stuff, prickly as that crazy old Eridium dude up in Sanctuary. Most've the bushes 'round Maggie May's place are good and flamey by now. If I had more time I coulda told her get your baby, take it somewhere that ain't on fire. I coulda said a lotta things, I guess.

But the dirt at my feet at the base of the junk mountain, the dirt now drenched in my brains, is rust, simple as. Just a shit heap of metal gone bad, I guess, eaten like acid by old, old rain.

I mean, I'd cuss her out about it, but at this point I don't have jaw enough left to swear with.


	2. Chapter 2: NEW-U

**2.**

**NEW-U.**

Some folks don't see 'em. Some folks draws a blank when you mention you been to the other side an' seen what it has to offer. There's a whole mess o' light I s'pose, an' a tunnel that twists back 'round on itself. It's possible, if you die for real, you come back as a tot like the one just got me killed. Reincarnation aside, far as Maggie May's concerned I'm just another weight off her back.

'Cept this weight's comin' back with a vengeance.

First things first, I got to square things up with Maggie May. Sure, she just killed me, but I want to set her mind to rest, tell her ain't nobody gonna be takin' her from her baby. This killer has a code, I guess; I mean, the dude with the lobster claw was offerin' a lot of zeros-a _lo-ho-ho-hot-_but if they ain't enough to buy my honour they ain't nowhere near enough to let the dude who set the trap that got me off the hook. If you're gonna send me to finish a soul, you got to give me all the necessary details. I wanna go settle his score an' all, but what I wants and what I should do's are two separate things.

So once I've finished puking my guts up, instead of doin' any of the aforementioned want-tos I'm goin' home sweet home to take care of some things. Probably best to sort my own shit out, 'fore I get in over my head.

It's just as well home's only a short ways from the New-U. Ain't the first time I got puke up in my soul patch an' it always refuses to come out without a good wash 'n' dry.

Input the code, over the welcome mat, up in my bathroom and it finally comes free. It was clotted well an' good in there, like, God, what did I eat? Looks like beans, 'cept I ain't eaten beans for a fortnight.

Orange light from the bulbs 'round the mirror, five of seven burned out and the last two so dim y'can see the elements glowering_. Who's this handsome bastard?_ they seem to say. The mirror cracked 'n' grimy. Need to wash it, too, once I'm done with my face.

Set down the soap an' Lorelei comes in. She ain't a one for talking, spends most of her time just bustlin' here and there. Think she might've been a cleaner, once upon a song. One of her motors done broke-shame, seein' as this place can be quite the mess-but I still keep her around for the company. She didn't cost me much, neither.

She comes in, hangs out, makes it uncomfortable for me to pee. I know she can't see me as such, and she ain't got no sense of embarrassment nor impropriety. "Can't you see I'm tryin' to whizz here?" I says, and she beeps, all forlorn. She's lost, is all. Once I zip up my massive junk I kick her in the keister, get her shit moving back to the living room.

The last girl I had over freaked out over my collection. Think she had something wrong with her, t' be honest. Had them little piggie eyes, hair thinning like an old man, and a jaw like a big ol' butt cheek. Speech impediment too. Don't know why I bought her back to mine, truth been told. Musta been hella drunk.

"Eww," she says, eyes screwin' up 'til they all but disappeared. "Are those _sexy_ dolls?" Like I'm some sorta pree-vert.

Politely, I showed her the exit. Don't like people insultin' my girls, is all.

Once I've shaken off resurrection sickness I straighten myself up and pull ol' Donna outta storage. She was my last gun, straight-up Jakobs. She's slow to warm to strangers an' doesn't do anything other than bust up body parts, but there's ornate brass trim on her stock that makes her real special in my eyes. 'Fore Betsy, she slept in bed with me, but these days she's up on the rack with the rest. I keep my rifles and other sidearms dust-free and slick with gun grease. Same as th' boy scouts, my motto is _be prepared._

Armed 'n' dangerous as hell. Time to find the lobster dude 'n' work out just what th' fuck's going on.

'Cept when I get there, the dude's long gone.

It's a headscratcher. Toilet's still there, still with the shields all hanged up on the door, still in the shadow of a huge black mountain riddled with red lines, ore or such. Still next to his hole of a shack which, now I see inside, couldn't look less like someone's current abode, largely 'cause there ain't any belongings behind the ragged sheet acts as a door, but mainly 'cause its former occupant is laid out dead, old brown blood on the cot, gathering flies and stinking the place up.

Honest to god, thought the water closet smelled bad before I went in there. An' the sun's real high, bakin' the place. Nearly threw up all over again.

All them zeros, I think. Too good to be true.

But then I see the tracks all over the place, and things start getting weird. Skag tracks mostly, tin snakes and coilers, sloughed skins brittle, pawprints all scuffed. Ain't rained here for a while, and with the mountain blockin' the wind it's fairly secluded, showin' in the dirt the varmints and visitors been sniffin' 'round the poor dead boy in the shack.

'Cept a little way out, in a broad band that stretches a few feet 'tween here and the road, the prints is all gone like they was erased. Takes me a moment, the light bein' so scarce 'an such, but I get there in the end: a downdraft erased those prints, some flyin' skiff, the kind you just don't see this far into the Badlands.

Then I take a closer look at some o' the boot prints 'mongst the skag scratch. Those are some distinctive treads, I reckon. Expensive boots made those prints: expensive, military grade boots.

And just what the fuck was the military doin' out here?

"I _kilt_ you." That crummy gun of hers is on my head again. She's wary this time, knowing I'll come back.

"Now Maggie May," I says. "I ain't here to hurt you or your kin. All I want's my Betsy, and maybe you tellin' me why that dude wants you gone."

"But you're _dead!_" Sure 'nough, the evidence of my demise is just a few feet back, clotted on the rust-dirt under moon of rising eve.

While I was busy recompiling Maggie May's been gettin' out of dodge. Got everything in baskets roped down on her technical: baby crap, dresses with hems flutterin' out the basket lids. Through her front window, half-melted, half-shattered, I see mosta her stuff left behind. I been dead an hour. If she's escapin', she needs to do it faster.

The baby's strapped into a car seat, swaddled 'n' still bawlin'. When I showed up I caught Maggie May dousing her homestead with gas. I gave her plenty time to take up her gun. With Donna by my side, she knows I could kill her any time if I mean to.

"You got me there," I says. "And I reckon, if you meant to, you could dead me again in a flash."

Slow-like, I lay Donna in the dirt. Maggie May don't so much soften as ease off the trigger a notch. Still, she's got her gun on me.

"How you come back? This a trick? What you want?"

"The dude who promised me a zillion bucks for your head disappeared, so I reckon its 'bout time you an' I compare notes. He lied to me by _omission,_ see_._ Didn't tell me nothing 'bout Junior there. Hardly tole me anything 'bout you neither, or at least, nows I think about it, nothin' I consider actual factual rock-solid reasoning. You steal his shit an' break his heart?"

Maggie May shakes her head, then shrugs, mullin' it over. "Guess you could say I did, if you was a twisted sumbitch. I wouldn't, though. Doubt you would, either."

"Is the littlun' his?" Can't see his hands from here; mayhaps one's a lobsterclaw.

"He's _mine,"_ she says, defiant, raising her Tediore again. "Ain't nobody takin' him from me. I'll kill you a hunnert times over if I have to, as many as it takes to make sure you're dead."

"Whoah, whoah, no need! Alls I want's my Betsy and I swear you'll never see me again."

"Betsy?"

I describe her.

Maggie May laughs fit to burst her navel. "Yer _gun?_ Shit, where'd you think this heap o' junk behind me came from?"

"You traded Betsy for a car?"

"You don't unnerstand," she says. "Me an' Junior gotta get outta here. The dude with the claw, he ain't ever gonna stop. He wants us dead so we gotta go. Fast."

"Then I guess we reached an impasse."

This tick appears, right above her eyebrow. Pretty she might be, but when the temper takes her Miss. Maggie May turns ugly real fast. "The hell you say. I'm takin' my kid and getting the shit away from here. What you do once we're gone ain't none o' my concern.

I could scoop Donna up, I guess. I could cut my losses and go.

An' it's sad, cause I _loved_ Betsy. I loved her more'n my top hat, an' that's sayin' something.

But what else is there to do, other than ask to whom Maggie May traded her, and maybe make some enquiries of my own? I should let Maggie May an' her boy get on with their lives. I certainly planned to.

But then the rust at my feet starts stirrin' again, and part o' my former self's scalp gets blown past like a tumbleweed. _No hat,_ I think, wondrin' just what parts of me gets replicated and what parts is left behind.

Then comes the gunfire.

Bullet's rake up the rust, pass 'tween us, shoot the back o'her technical sending lady-garments everywhere, the baby cries harder, them dead-looking bushes splinter, thorns flyin' in all directions and I don't even shout for her to get down. 'Fore I know it I have the baby seat in one hand and Maggie May's wrist in the other, and I'm draggin' all three of us to the closest cover while Maggie May beats at my arm.

It's dark, like, indigo. Up in the sky one of the buzzards has turned to shoot the shit out of us. It shrieks as it falls, all death and downdraft, and its guns blaze like a comet hurtling groundward . The sun's almost down and night animals dance in and out of gunfire, running before it. Everything at ground level is bathed in pinks and blues, and as I duck behind Maggie May's hut she screams, "_Dummy, the place is rigged to blow!"_.

Oh, right: the gas. Sometimes I forget things.

She pulls free; I hand over her baby. The two run off while the buzzard circles back for another shot.

As for me, I gotta save Donna. She's out in the open, all defenseless, on her own. Funny when you think of it, her being a gun 'n' all. She needs me as much as I need her.

'Round the corner of the hovel, the siding smells like electricity; like the colour blue; like the deep down rainbow of the gasoline on the ground, all pooled an' slicked an' colourful, even in fallin' night. The buzzard's almost finished its return arc an' I'm running out, rollin', scooping poor Donna into my arms.

I kiss her barrel. Everything's gonna be okay.

It's straightenin' up and flyin' real low an' I'm chambering a round, bringin' her up, one knee under my elbow, the other in the rust. It's belchin' fire as I'm squinting down her sight, steadyin' my aim, lookin' real close at the sumbitches riding that thing. They're secure in its rollcage with guns, rocket launchers and God knows what attached to the sides. Them two big jets like wings on its backside, and the pilot's thumb squashin' the trigger.

Two trails of red dust snaking t'wards me; two trails of bullet fire passin' by either side. They burn the ground as they go, but I ain't hit and I'm still squintin' down Donna's sight.

How do you think it feels to be on top 'o the world, flying high as mescaline, shittin' death from your asshole, about to soar up for another crap-on-D.P. when you realise he don't need to see your skull in order to poke a hole in it? I might not be holding Betsy, and it's true that Donna's a little slower on the pull, but what she lacks in speed she more'n makes up for in punch.

I already drew my bead. My baby does all the rest.

Spearin' the air, the pipes holdin' engines to frame, through the back of the seat and out through his head. Dummy don't even know what kilt him, I'll guess.

His gun-toting passenger screams. Black smoke coils from the pipework I punctured; red mist spills from Mr. Pilot's head. The buzzard goes down angled sideways, momentum and gravity pushin' and pullin' as the jets give in and it heads for the ground.

And what's waitin' to cushion its fall, you might ask? Only Maggie May's abode, all drenched in gas.

Like I said, sometimes I forget.

I gotta get movin', maybe faster'n' I ever have. When I came across Maggie May she was sloppin' that shit all over the dirt. The smell's heavy an' low; over it come burnin' wreckage, then flames lickin' all too close. I got, like, two second's grace as the world pauses for dramatic effect. Get my shit in gear. Move this way 'n' that. Just get away, y'damn fool. _Get away._

An' then it goes, an I swear, the way the world was pausin' it was breathing _in_. Just a huge, suckin' breath into Crawermax's lungs followed by the wall-of-force downbeat of Mothrakk's wings. Yeah, I took my shot at Mothrakk same as all the rest. Bitch chased me all over the Badlands; had to hide under them bandits' houses 'til she lost interest.

But flames don't get disinterested. They rise all at once, flickerin' out 'cross the gas-damp dirt like they're chasin' me, too. The rust pops and crackles. _Whoosh,_ and the skeletal black plants with thorns big as dicks are all toast. All the world's on fire and I'm still shuffling away on my butt, kicking up clods of this, that an' th'other with the heels of my boots, reflections dancing on their toes like my toes is aflame an' . . .

Shit, they _is_ aflame. Kick at the desert, put 'em out. Ankles coil back as nerves fry in my socks. Weirdest dang dance I got goin' on here, pain and reflexes doin' the fandango. Gloves all that stands between my palms an' metal shards. Behind, the rust mountain quakes 'n' slides and a crap-o-lanche starts with bedsprings 'n' railings 'n' sewage pipes 'n' barbed wire 'n' a hundred other things nastier than hell itself hurrying toward me, happy to meet a new friend.

I skedaddle through the smoke cloud, eyes burning, thinking 'bout that Mordecai ass-splash. No wonder he wears protective goggles. I mean, you'd _think _it'd put him at a disadvantage given that sight is like best tool for sniping tool after yer schlong. A quick pair of eyes out-gleams even a first-rate gun, and if a sniper's well-sighted _and_ well-endowed, well, if you ain't lightning fast an' you're up against such, you might as well be dead.

Speakin' of which: Donna's over my shoulder, tappin' me on the back as I haul ass through smoke 'n' flames. _Darlin' D.P.,_ she seems to say. _Have you noticed that there's another flying machine sputtering overhead?_

And I hadn't, I hadn't at all. Too preoccupied with more earthly affairs-such as not being crushed under a gravity-bound junkheap. They stack 'em high in these parts, 'n' precarious as hell. A tarnished ol' rim with a nice patina of rakk doody rolls and jounces its way past, blackening as smut gathers, a midnight sun in a world on fire.

Then gunfire rains again, so close I can feel it down my neck.

"Git _down!"_

Maggie May's voice, a million miles away, an' her baby's crying 'cause the _damn thing never stops_, and even in the thousand degree heat of the burning hovel the lead's far hotter. It's a phoenix more than a buzzard, and wasn't there some talk of some _actual_ phoenix on Pandora, known as the Firehawk or some such? I read so many missives, and I never did sleep too well. As my toes are burning and my head's dizzy with smoke and the ground's all a-rumble and everything hurts, maybe it's something I once dreamt now rupturin' through into waking life.

With the buzzard bearin' down on and the house-swear to God-_exploding_ as I try to get 'round it, strikes me now's either a pretty good time to go to sleep and dream, or to wake the fudge up.

An' there she is, angel wings an' all, sproutin' destruction with a babe under one arm and a shotgun in the other: Maggie May, the single hardest thing in this infirm universe. The set of her jaw, the steel in her eyes, the twitch in her eyebrow and her gun-arm outstretched, so rigid tendons pop up in the crook of her arm. She's pointing point-blank, then aiming for the sky, and when she pulls, _when she pulls,_ it's like God himself came.

I know there has to be noise, but I can only feel it: the shotgun barks in a wave of cool air and there's the distinct sense of a ten-tonne monkey being lifted off my back.

Then it's rainin' bits of hot metal, and Maggie May collapses among them, protecting her child to the end. The twisted, popping, remains of the buzzard eat at her clothes and hair. That sad ol' gun of hers falls to the ground, the eye of its barrel blown wide like it can't believe what it's done.

If she says anything, I don't hear that, neither. All I hear's the whine of a distant scythid, an' Junior, still cryin'.

I get up close. Her leg's hurt real bad-buzzard fire, I'm guessing. I help her up, and aren't we the pair? With her leg a mess and mine still smoking it's a wonder we don't fall, makin' angels in the ash.

Realise the scythid's in my head; l can't hear worth a damn til she hooks her fingers in the neck of my shirt, pulls herself to me. Can't weigh more than a hundred pounds, I guess; her _and_ the baby.

Her lips are wet with blood and her voice trembles. "_There's more comin',"_ she says.

And off in the distance buzzards circle like vultures.

There's only one place I kin think of to go. Only one place that might-might-be safe.

"It's your lucky day, lady," I says. "I'm takin' you home."


	3. Chapter 3: Catch-A-Ride

**3. **

**Catch-A-Ride**

She don't like the dolls anymore'n my ex did, but she's grateful at least, an' don't mention 'em beyond askin': "Where'd you find 'em?"

Got some Insta-Health somewhere. Always did mean to sort out these drawers. "Fella offloaded 'em onto me. Needed me to keep 'em safe. Never did come to claim 'em back, so I reckon now they're mine."

Catch her looking kinda disgusted, but she brightens when she sees me lookin', one o' them brittle smiles that says _You 'n' me are fine for the moment but soon's I can I'm exitin' thataway._

Makes me feel sorta sheepish. Havin' female company's one thing, but havin' a momma an' her wailin' newborn's quite the other. Lorelei's banging her head into a wall past the couch, 'n' Maxine 'n' Bobbi managed to get their manipulators tied together, and just keep movin' in circles, back 'n' forth. Saw a clock with a pendulum like that, once. Most swing up 'n' down, but this one had big brass balls that moved in circles like they was dancin'.

I detangle 'em, turn Lorelei so's she's got a clean path ahead o' her, then shoo 'em all outta my livin' space 'fore I hand Maggie-May her pick-me-up.

"Y'need bandages, antiseptic, hot towels?" Her leg's a mess, but she's cautious, holdin' the baby 'gainst her bosoms, bad leg on the coffee table 'mongst my magazines an' whatnot with the good one ready to git. She'll limp right outta here if I don't take charge, and if she does I ain't never gettin' Betsy back.

She looks me over, tryin' to make up her mind. "Sure," she says. Then she hefts the baby up to her shoulder, pats it on the back. "Baby's hungry, if you got somethin' to eat."

"Canned skag meat. Canned vegetables, too. Turnipoids an' whatnot."

"You got a blender?"

"Why, you want a margarita? That's sort of a joke." She don't laugh none. "Got some brandy, you need alcohol. Though, with the baby . . ."

Whipcrack fast she says. "I'll take it. The drink. And a fork."

Why she needs a fork to drink with's beyond me, 'til I spill the turnipoids out into a dish and hand it to her. She starts mashin' it all up, holdin' onto her kid all the while, and in a fussy sorta voice asks if I'd dress her leg.

We do it in silence: her feeding the baby, me washin' and bandaging the wound. It's bad, but the Insta-Heal takes the bite out of it. Looks pretty neat when I'm done, which is more'n I can say 'bout Maggie May's turnip-stained shirt.

"Impressive," she says, peerin' down at my handiwork. "Dressed like a real doctor done it."

"That's the thing 'bout being a lone wolf hitman. You get hurt, you D.I.Y. Needs must, and all that hooey."

"Spend a lotta time on yer own?" she says, like it couldn't possibly be any other way.

"It's mostly me an' my girls, there. Had a friend or two lived nearby. They're up in heaven, now."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Whut? Naw, don't be. By up in heaven, I mean they're up in that big floatin' city overlookin' the Highlands. Some of 'em, anyways. Sanctuary. Y'know?"

Blank look she gives me says that she don't.

"Ain't worth much of a look, if you was thinkin' otherwise. You knows them people that thinks they're better'n you just 'cause you look or sound a little diff'rent?"

"Oh yeah," she says, and the baby spits up a little more turnip. "I know."

"Yeah, well. Place is full of 'em. How's the baby? He ain't sick, is he?"

"Naw, he's just being a littlun'-crying an' throwing up's just 'bout all they're good for. An' being cute, of course."

She boops his nose, an' for just a second the cryin' almost stops.

She goes on: "Thanks, 'n' all. Fer takin' us in after I blowed up yer head."

"Ain't no thang. If yer feelin' down 'bout it, I'm feelin' much better."

"How _is_ that, by the way? What I means to say is-" she swallows "-how is you still alive?"

I try to explain to her the New-U, but it just don't parse. Happens from time to time. S'like, only somes of us can see 'em, meanin' only somes of us comes back.

But it ain't consistent, and it hurts like a mother, and you never get yerself into trouble just so's you can come back. That shit's expensive, and the last thing anyone needs is to be owing cash to Hyperion.

"Well, I'm glad you're came back, however that was." She snakes a look at one of my dolls as if deciding something one way or th'other. Then, shrugging: "Think you might be one of the good ones, D.P."

"Even though I tried to shoot you?"

"Soon as that buzzard darkened the sky you rescued Junior here. Can't ask for much more than that, I guess."

"I guess."

Awkwardness follows.

Can I level with you, imaginary reader? But for folks commenting on the size of my schlong, I don't get so many in the way of compliments. Makes no sense to me neither, style icon that I am, with my top hat and boot buckles up to my knees, and my shaggy checkered coat that don't so much keep the cold out as make me look _awesome_. Hell, even my t-shirt's, like, _the shit._'_Rakk 'n' roll'_ it says, and there's one o' them Claptraps playin' guitar whilst screaming into a microphone. First time I sees that, I knows I gots to have it. Ordered it right off the Echo network, then 'n' there, no regrets. Gives me hella chuckles every time I see it.

So yeah. Don't know what folks got 'gainst me or nothing, so I'm real 'ppreciative when people express their gratitudes. Why, I might have even blushed.

"Anyways," I say. The word comes out slow an' twisted even for me. "Guess I better go get my Betsy from wherever you said she was."

She tells it to me again. I set my ECHO to record, just in case.

"Yer welcome to stay here as long as you need. Just, uh, just help yerself to the turnips 'n' whatnot. Turnipoids're pretty cheap round these parts, on account of them tasting like turd."

She smiles, kinda wan and distant, hardly a smile at all. "Okay, D.P." she says. "Maybe we will."

All my girls come out to see me off. Someone musta programmed them to do that, long time ago. Might've been me, as it happens. I know they ain't _people_ precisely, an' some of them ain't got no heads, or limp cause they got a laser pick where their leg should be, and not all of them have ProxiSkinn or Hair4U so they look scary in the dark, and Jetta's getting really rusty 'round her joints and squeaks like a set o' honeymoon bedsprings when she walks. Still, it sure is nice to have folks miss you when you're gone, an' wave you off when you're goin'.

Mightn't think it to look at me, but I got a car. It's a piece of garbage, though. Don't got no weapons, and it has just the one flickering headlamp'll give you headache if you stare at it. Suspension's shot. Tires're bald. Never did see the point in cars so much. If I want to get somewhere I'll walk, or use the FT.

But Crazy Eddie, he _loves_ cars. Junkers're his favourite. He'll haul Ps of S all the way up from his brother's old scrapyard, tinker with 'em for a few weeks, an' when he's finished they'll be good as new. Better, even. Eddie fancies himself an artist, likes to 'speriment with paintjobs. There's a sayin' round these parts: Eddie's Automobiles is good enough to hang in a gallery.

It's worth notin' that there ain't no galleries nearby, and that aforementioned sayin'? It's pretty much only Eddie ever says it.

I met him through Ellie, this real smart lady lives out The Dust way. She sees him from time to time, her owning a garage and him lovin' cars an' such. She's big on junkers'n all; with vault hunters passing through her hunting ground there's always plenty of wrecked automobiles, some still with bits've bandit at the wheel. Between there and Eddie's brother's scrapyard there's always plenty of ground to cover, but Crazy Eddie's dedicated, the man has a passion.

"He ain't currently here," says Ellie. ECHO line's always sketchy out in the boonies-and the general makeup of Pandora is such that it's _all_ boonies. Got to squint with my ears to hear her, the network all a-crackle. "But he came through coupla days ago. Said he was heading south-east back to his brother's place. You know it?"

"Reckon so. Bit far outta my reach, but I can make it."

"Well sugar, you have any car needs, I kin always take a peek under yer hood, so to speak."

Ellie's real sweet. Always has time for me, where most folks dassn't. Prob'ly heard all about the length o' my you-know-what.

Anyway. I tell her it's gun problems I'm having, _to whit,_ mine ain't currently in my possession.

"Guns? Don't think he mentioned none, though if you need one I have a few assault rifles packed away for special occasions. Why y'asking?"

I tell her that, too. Ellie's one of the good ones.

"Well aren't you in a pickle! Pickin' up strange women, don't know where they been-and you with a rugrat?" She laughs, delicate-like; sounds like chimes the ice cream vans used to play. "Let me see if I can grab Eddie for ya. Got his ECHO transponder locator thingamujig somewhere-you hold on, D.P."

She roots around a bit, and when the connection gets even worse I know she's trying to bring him into the call, like, three-way action.

"Sorry darlin'," she says. "Can't hail him. Though now I think 'bout it, I do remember him leavin' with one fewer car than he paid for. Could be the one now belongin' to your girlfriend."

"She ain't my girlfriend."

"I should hope not! Eligible young man like you, tied down at such an age. It would break my poor li'l heart." She laughs again. Ellie always likes playin' like this, though she don't mean nothin' by it. "

"Well," I says. "Thanks anyway."

"Now wait a second there, Mr. D. P. if-you-please. You might be used to let-downs an' broken promises, but you're dealing with Ellie now. Getting Eddie on the horn is just the beginnin' of my plan of action. Give me a sec' an' I'll clue you in."

Rustling, then thumpin', then a whole lotta crashin' an' cursin'-some so colourful, you wouldn't think a gal like Ellie would know what them words meant. Then she's back on the line sounding every bit outta breath. She gulps an' she wheezes, and tells me over an' over, _Just you hold on, you hold on there_ 'til she can speak again.

"One of the cars had anti-theft measures installed," she says. "ECHO tagged to track it's location all over Pandora. Thing was as busted as that time Momma found my brother's porno stash-and let me tell you, havin' seen the kinda smut li'l Scooter was into, it was about time she gave him a good talkin' to. If we're lucky, it might still be givin' off a weak-as-piss signal. All kindsa electrical flora an' fauna on the road down south. Any cactus or volt-spittin' skag mighta given it a charge, enough to make it blip. I been down there I can't tell you how many times, but every visit, by trip's end I gots to brush the static outta my luscious locks. Now, let me see . . ."

It takes some beeps and boops 'fore she gets back to me. I can her humming some advertising jingle, even through the netherwind of the ECHO line. Folks call it the echo on account of how it talks back to you, but you get echos in caves-canyons too-when you stand on th'edge or in the depths of the earth and scream and scream an' . . .

"Well, sugar pie, looks like this is yer lucky day. I got a trace signal right here, Crazy Eddie heading south past-well, it says here Frostburn Canyon. Y'know what kinda highway heads south past there?"

I tell her yes, I do, and thank you kindly for your time, ma'am.

"Ma'am? You take yer 'ma'am' an' you stick it in a bucket. I ain't nothing but a greasy-armed country girl, Mr. D.P." More laughter. I always did like the way Miss Ellie laughed.

She sends through Eddie's locator beacon. He's a little ways out, on a long stretch of blacktop we call Highway 666. That's due north-west of my homestead, and I'm already on the road in a vehicle halfway falling apart. Ellie always says she'll fix it free of charge-she says the high-pitched whinin' the exhaust makes sets her teeth on edge-but I've heard the sounds the cars she repairs make, the way they roar and rumble. Ask me, if a cold-hearted sniper needs to sneak up on his kill, better to do it in a vehicle that whines like a varkid than one that bellows like a badass. Mosta my bounties had their eardrums burst by 'sploisons and loud music; they can't hear mosquitos but they sure as hell know a big ol' bullymong when it's stampedin.

Anyway, I kinda got attached to my car. Never gave her no name or nothin', but she gets me where I need to go.

We're heading north, me an' her. Somewhere over thataway, the Crimson Tollway straddles the desert like some gargantuan stick insect. 666 is like its shadow, hugging the same route 'til it peels eastward into stickier climes. The skies turn green here; we're heading over swampland, Newt's Crossing, Rattle-End, Clamshell Creek-all them places just as poisonous as they look, with carnivorous plants thriving in acid and noxious gases bubblin' like fart in a jello bathtub. 666 don't get a mess of traffic-no vault hunters riding her, not yet-but there's still places in the side-rails where folks misturned and broke right through. When I was a boy I'd steal Pappy's hover-ped, come up here an' hawk on all the trucks 'n' such that was half-melted in the swamp. Breeg, my bestest buddy I ever did have, he'd say the spirits of all those who died was still down there, that at night time y'could see 'em glowin' and hear 'em wailin' for all those they'd loved and lost. He said the swamp was cursed, that people didn't come back as zombies as such-though ain't nobody not heard 'bout certain locations where undead roam th' land-but got stuck in the netherspace instead. He also said a whole Hyperion factory done drowned under the mire, th' first one ever built on Pandora, an' that the spirits of the dead folks got in an' possessed the half-finished robots.

Then he pushed my shoulder so hard I almost fell the hell in, the sumbitch.

I think of Breeg every time I cruise 666. We was close as any two boys could be, I reckon. Pappy'd always smack my legs-an' he had bionic tendons, so y'can bet that shit smarted-for stealing his hover-ped, but I'd still take it out again' just so's me and Breeg could hang out an' shoot the shit, tellin' each other horror stories and spittin' on rusty ol' ghosts.

'Course, that was 'fore he joined up with some bandit tribe. Pinned a mask to his face, set himself on fire a bunch. Wonder if he ever thinks o' me, or if he's too busy throwin' axes into folks' ballsacks.

It's a real long journey up 666. There's skagosaurs down there, trumpetin' an' hissin'. Once I see a whole herd gallopin', with one of them Skagosaurus Rexes champin' after 'em. Also, real high in the sky, weird things I don't even know how to describe are dippin' and divin', troublin' no one in particular. They look like a train made love to a row-boat, I guess: long chains of carriages with oars stuck out the sides, only when they dip low enough y'kin see even the oars have wings, long, blue 'n' see-through, an' they got li'l milipede legs danglin' from every segment of their bodies, and their heads are wider'n they are long, an' have floppy teeth or tendrils trailin' from them. Breeg used to say they was Thresher babies that hatched straight from their bodies, but I never bought it. These things is far too pretty to come from them wormy sumbitches. I call 'em 'train flies'. The name's a work in progress.

Too busy musin' on the whats of days past and the wherefores of the sky, I nearly miss Crazy Eddie comin' in the opposite direction. The ECHO hella beeps, wakes me outta my daydream, an' I slam on the brakes.

"Yo, Eddie!" His car's pulled up next to mine. Sweet ride, painted t' look like a beachside postcard, palm trees, bucket 'n' spades, the works. Sign up by the spoiler reads 'Welcome to Oasis.' "Eddie, I need your help, man."

That's when the car starts rollin' again, an' I realise, passing 'semblance aside, that ain't Eddie.

Beauty it may be, but the car's got no pick-up. I get out, bang on the hood, engine heat searin' the underside of my fist which, might I add, still stings on account of the whole bushfire shenanigans from the day before. More acceleration, driving me back. Sky-blue bumper tryin' to break my shins. Tires like big-ass balloons tryin' to mow my shit down.

I climb on the hood as she gets under weigh, looking like the world's dumbed hood ornament. Painted sun's under one hand, roughly-sketched boob of some some smilin' lady in a bikini's under the other. "Hey wait," I say, jamming my hand down harder. I ain't as strong as some, certainly ain't no berserker, but I'm 'bout ready to dent the hood of this sucker if it means this dude not gettin' away. "Jackass, you . . . you slow the _hell down._ I just needs to talk is all."

An' he slows. Don't stop none, though. Slowly but surely he's rollin' away from my ride.

The paintjob extends up the windshield. I imagine, were I in the passenger seat 'stead of on the hood, it'd look like one o' them stained glass windows inside, as if I was in church confessin' my sins. There's sand dunes there, and sunny seas, an' Eddie dotted each wave with a glint like a smile. Whatever creatures is flyin' over the waves, they sure as hell ain't rakk.

Yessir, I think, carted slowly down 666, this is one tranquil-ass scene. Only thing spoilin' the peace're the eyes glaring out from the middle of the horizon. Those ain't Eddie's-fer one, Eddie only has the one eye an' a patch 'cross the other. No, these eyes is furious; what's more, now I'm up close, I recognise them.

"Say, you're that black market dude. Eddie's brother."

"What if I am? Whatchu want?"

"I want to know what yer doin' drivin' Eddie's wheels, that's what."

"Eddie's dead. Bit a bullet. Now get off my ride, 'less you want the Lance to come shitcan yer ass."

Only things remainin' of the Lance are that stilt-high tollroad of theirs to the east and a few dirty stragglers in Sanctuary. I'm 'bout to tell the dude as such when he guns the accelerator an' knocks me on my keister.

It's a sad, sad thing, but on Pandora the only action'll that'll make most folks pay attention is a gun barrel pressed against their head-that or a big ol pair o' buh-sooms, an' in case you hadn't noticed, my well-endowment is constrained solely to the crotchel region.

"Whoah there," says the dude. There's glass 'tween his head and Donna' mouth, a tiny rectangle where Eddie's paintwork's been scritched away so the driver can see, but both he and I know it ain't gonna stop a bullet. "Mebbe I misspoke. Let me slows down sos we can chit-chat. How that fit you?"

"Sir," I says, slow as I ever am. "That fits me just fine."


	4. Chapter 4: Sanctuary

**4. **

**Sanctuary.**

The whole truth, as Eddie's brother tells it while I'm sparkin' up, is that Eddie got himself kilt just after settin' out from Ellie's.

"Got my quickdial on his pacemaker," says Earl. "Lists me as next of kin. It fritzes, he dies, I get a call tellin' me come collect his stuff. Thought he'd be rich, selling all that art crap." He spits off 666, a stringy brown wad of phlegm wind-blown to the spirits below. "My only brother, penniless as a swimmin' locker in the desert." He looks up, green sky not entirely unlike the blue one daubed 'cross his automobile. "Y'hear that, Ma, you dirty-tittied bitch? I'm the successful boy now! Earl is!"

He died just how Earl says: bit a bullet, case closed. That's the biggest problem with Pandora, now the Lance has gone. People die, ain't no one 'round to avenge them. You'd think fer someone in my line of work that's be a plus, but I like to think everyone whose head I done shot off was a wicked piece of work who deserved it. I mean, I can't possibly _know _if they was saint or angel, but whatever it takes to get a good night's sleep, y'know?

There're still a few law-people scattered 'cross the continent, one floatin' over it in Sanctuary, one in Lynchwood-though lord knows, tales I heard 'bout her, she's as much murderer as the bandits she reg'ly gibbets. That's the problem with livin' out on the new frontier. When all of law's been hounded off, only way left's the justice of the gun.

"Don't you care?" I ask Earl. "Don't you give two shits who or what done this to your kin?"

He shrugs-big shrugger, is Earl. "Ain't like I can do nothin'. That voice of his, the one like nails along a razor-covered pine cone? Just for a second, it goes quiet. "I mean, sure, he was my baby brother. Ain't like I _wanted_ him dead. An' holidays'll be a smidge less effort. Just me an' my turkey, I guess." Shoulders like broke-ass shoehorns rise an' fall, an' with an almighty sniff he perks right up again. "Meanin' more for me! You done now, dipshit? I got a car needs gettin' home."

But there's somethin' bout his eyes, even through the thin coil of smoke I'm blowin' into the wind. I guess Earl's eyes are what most people notice first. Hard eyes-small too. How precious gems is just coal all squashed down by rock, that's how Crazy Earl's eyes is. Madder 'n' redder than blood diamonds.

I mean, maybe it's my imagination, but if diamonds could bleed y'could almost say Earl was tryin' not to cry.

"Yeah," I say. "We're done. 'Cept for one last matter."

He sighs, all theatric, but gives it up all the same. See, Earl's scrapyard might be down south, but of late he's been keeping new digs. Ain't a place is easy to get into, 'less you got the know how.

Files get transferred. Codes get swapped. Earl's still cursing my name as his picture postcard spits dust in the distance. Motion in the sky catches my attention; my charred toes curl, ready for me t' git, but it's just another train flyin' lower than usual. It hoots, like it knows I can see it threadin' in an' outta wisps of green cloud. A train fly's cry is a mournful thing, I reckon.

Lemme take a second to talk to you 'bout fast travel.

See, gettin' one place t'another at the speed o' light (or thereabouts) is a dangerous thing, 'less you got the right coordinates.

And by 'right coordinates' I mean coordinates of such precision, such decimal point zero zero zero such 'n' such, if yer thumb don't ache like a sumbitch after typin' all them integers, yer apt to re-appear in the middle of a stone butte.

Don't pretend you want to appear in the middle a butte, now. Ain't nobody wants that.

An' fast travel's expensive, an' fast travel's hard. It takes its wear an' tear on the soul just as the New-U does, which is why folks takes mag-trains, drives automobiles an' rides skags rather than taking the instantaneous route through nether-space.

Like I told Maggie May, needs must.

It starts as a tickle way down in yer gut. It's like bein' on a swing, the moment you get pulled way back before lettin' go, an' all that's standin' between you an flyin' over the lip of the canyon is the tyre you're sat upon, the tree to which it's roped

An' then gravity claims you. The wind in yer hair, roots, rock an' dirt all rushin' past yer feet. We never did find out who tied the swing there, but all the kids knew how to reach it, how to get through the firemelon patch without catchin' a blast to the face, how to climb th'edge of Squits Canyon without wreckin' their sneakers-those who wore sneakers; some kids had soles so hard, they could kick through a skag pile without the shit eating their toes. We'd form lines, orderly business, not much in the way of pushin' and shovin' with the canyon so close-even dumb kids got a modicum of sense. We'd make our way to the front, me an' Breeg, his overalls snapped on one shoulder so the scars his daddy gave him showed fierce through his tan, an' when it came for Dade, the big bruiser's kid, to give us a push, Breeg'd say "After you, D.P. I just want to watch."

You fly through the wind in invisible bits 'n' pieces. Antennae transmit the signal one to 'nother; at any given time on any given day there might be hundreds of folks all whizzin' unseen over your head. I like to imagine myself reachin' down to touch those masts, this one frozen in the tundra, this one hot as hell in the Eridium drillin' fields, all as different as the lands I'm flyin' over, all gettin' me to my destination.

That's how it goes on my way to Sanctuary. I need my Betsy back, it's true, but there's something else startin' to worry me, something that might be even more important.

Ever been to Sanctuary? Maybe once, a year or two back, just after Roland kicked them Bloodshots out on their asses? Things has changed since then, in that the city ain't as attached to the ground as it once was. Maybe you saw it, liftin' out the dirt on a bunch of big-ass rockets. Rumour has it the whole dang city used to be a Dahl spaceship left after their minin' operation went sour, but I also heard the Slab King was spotted up there an' that 'stead of rockets the whole thing's propelled aloft on his farts, so I dunno, your mileage may vary _vis-a-vis _the truth.

Since Sanctuary went up in the sky I only been there the once, t' collect a bounty. After that, uh, well, I ain't exactly been welcomed back. They changed the frequencies an' everything, prevent me getting back. Fortunately, mercenary sumbitch that he is, Crazy Earl don't give two shits as to who enters an' who don't. It ain't like they got sniffer-skags on the doors, or a dress code 'n' whatnot. Think I'll just saunter in, get the info I need, get out again.

Says the man with thr impossibly large penile appendage. Like it's that damned simple.

Y'know who lives in Sanctuary these days? Y'got your indigents; yer homeless; yer nomadic types who got waylaid on a search for more permanent accommodations; yer soldiers-some ex-Lance, some otherwise; y'kin tell which is which by checking their anuses fer rods-yer privateerin gunsman authorised by any one of a number of megaconglomerates, off-world parliaments, homegrown militia including Roland's Crimson Raiders; some township regulars-doctors, mechanics, bar-owners and the like-a few loners, couples and families who just decided a flying fortress was the best place to settle down; and above all, clogging the streets with fist-fights and junk weapons, you got yer vault hunters.

I'm not a fan, personally. Some are decent. Some are okay. Some got Pandora into the predicament in which it currently finds itself, which is to say that some did this planet a whole world o' bad and some saw fit to fix th'others' mess.

But good or bad, rich or poor, to a man Vault Hunters think their shit don't stink-or worse, they know full well how it stinks and jus' don't give a crap. They are the highest and the mightiest, and ride tall in their saddles while the rest of us scrabble in dirt to make a living. Y'kin spot 'em easy enough: they're the ones with th' fancy hair-styles, th'expensive clothes, the ultra-rare firearms and the breath that smells like roses. They loiter in fours: two dudes, a weirdo an' a lady, drinkin' hard, tradin' this fer that, always fightin' over who fires fastest an' turnin' the air blue with off-world potty mouth. They sneer at an' make rude gestures toward humble well-endowed headhunters who got no interest in the alien technology they're all here to find, an' they swear up an' down, as God is their wtiness, that the whole damned planet revolves around them an' their needs.

To Vault Hunters, everything's a game.

If I wasn't already uneasy about coming back to Sanctuary I'd be keeping my head down. Shit like this is the reason I stick to the bounty boards in Jackville and other, less civilised places. I _could_ compete with the likes o' these peckersplashes-I could-but more often than not any bounty I stole would come back upon me tenfold. S'what happened to Pappy, may he rest in peace, when he took a hero's bounty back on Charybdis. Even cyborgs can't stand toe-to-toe with Vault Hunters.

One of 'em's in town as I pass Marcus's place. Mean as, this dude. Arguin' with a trash can. Got himself a mohawk and a bandaid 'cross his nose like it was busted, but man, I can't begin to 'magine what sorry breed o' sumbitch would mess with a dude like this.

I'll tiptoe pass with my head down. Don't need no trouble, nor anyfolk recognisin' me.

Still, I don't s'pose you'd say luck was runnin' in my favoure of late.

"Hey, _pendejo._" Takes me a second to realise who he's talkin' to. "You the janitor? Trash is tryin' my nerves, man. Swallowed my grenade, won't give it back. If I'd known I would have pulled the pin first, y'know?"

His accent's hard, his American kinda broken. I pretend I don't hear an' try to move on, but this guy's big as the late Baron Fynt's minin' machine. Grabs my collar, picks me up like a puppy. M'damned hat near falls off.

"Make it work," he says. He ain't tall so much as he is wide-broad I 'spose, though he don't have no problem pickin' me up, peen-zilla and all. Breath's all garlic, beans, rot. Trace o' cat piss-might be cheap beer, but here on Pandora folks make all kinds o' beverages outta cat urine an' worse.

Ain't until he plonks me back down that I see the trashcan is in fact one of them General Purpose Robots. Bots like these ain't nearly so pretty as my dolls, an' they don't put out at all, believe me. They're pretty much all over the place, skootin' 'round, doin' their thang. Some _does_ collect garbage, why this vault hunter mistook him fer a can. Right now this one's just quakin' on th' spot. Got some nice knuckle dents in his mid-section, th'kind an irate lucador with a thing for double-guns might have made.

"Hey little guy," I says. Got something of an affinity for robots. No good at fixin' them mind, but they're pretty good compansions when you're feelin' down or lost. I pat him on his sensor array; he cringes away, but the Hunter's got him all backed up against a vending machine so it ain't like he's got any place to go. "Did you eat this gentleman's grenade?"

The lens of his eye whirrs in 'n' out, lookin' over my shoulder at the angry slab of firepower behind. The Hunter growls like a feral tom 'bout to be neutered "Sir," I say without turnin'. "You want me to do my janitorial duty, yer gonna have to give me some space."

He grunts and moves off. The robot relaxes

"I didn't eat it, I swear," it says. "I only bumped into him while trying some new dance moves."

"'Zat so?"

"Yes, God, yes! I was whistling a merry tune and I saw a daisy growing up through a crack in the sidewalk. 'A daisy!' I thought, daisies being so rare you see, and especially difficult to come by in Sanctuary. 'If I were to care and nurture it, I might one day make a chain. I'd wear a crown of daisy chains and frollic in the mists. All would call me the fairy prince, and I'd play my flute like so."

He holds up his manipulators and twiddles his finger-joints like they's playing a set of pipes, which they ain't. Sound that issues from his speaker-hole ain't so musical neither.

"You poor tungsten sumbitch. Just how hard that Hunter hit you?"

"Not so hard, not so hard" says the robot, still playing his imaginary instrument. "But my organ circuits are leaking oil and there are little blue birdies circling my sensor array. Is that a bad sign?"

It ain't great. The grenade, as it turns out, has been rammed up into the robot's wheel casing. Takes some careful removal before it pops out-unprimed, luckily for those of us choosing to keep our appendages appended.

It's covered in grease, slippery as a skinned mule, so's I wipe it on m' jorts 'fore handing it to its rightful owner. Wouldn't do to bounce it off the ground. Grenades can be volatile things.

"You deed it!" says the Hunter. He tosses it like a physicist tosses an apple, catchin' it in a holster on his belt. The skull 'n' crossbones on his buckle seems to wink. "I'm takin' a shine to you, compadre. For a gutless no-chinned _pendejo_ y'aren't too bad." Wipes his grease-hand on a beard coarse as broom bristles; it lingers there, stroking, contemplative. "Hey, I know you man? You gotta familiar look about you."

"Maybe I dated your sister once or twice," I say.

His laughter has all the force of a moonbase spittin' loaders. "Ha, I think not! You walk straight an' your pelvis is intact. Isabella-_mi hermana-_is a crusher of men and a devourer of penises. You still have yours, do you not _amigo?"_

"Last I checked."

"Still, your face . . ." He leans in, breath blasting full force with cumin and cayenne, peerin' into my eyes like there's something he recognises deep inside. A finger like a fudgecicle pops me in the chest. "I'll remember," he says. "Should we meet again. I _never_ forget."

"I'll bet."

He goes, then. Off with his troop o' misfits. They're all there: gun happy white boy, chick in a lemon-yellow onesie, faceless hologramatical dude-he gives me the creeps. Seen 'em last time I was here, though I must admit, didn't think any o' them saw me. Maybe that's where the big guy knew me from. Maybe my disguise ain't as good as I think.

Anyways, can't stand here procrastinatin' with my hands up robots' orifices. The funny little tin guy's already off on his next errand, whistlin' a merry tune, the past forgotten, only the future ahead.

Fella I'm lookin' for's named Jessup. Now, me 'n' him go way back. He's my insider, I s'pose, always leaking me tidbits of info, lettin' me know what's what. We're part o' the Lodge see. Not the Sophisticate's Lodge-hang that. Imagine me, a sophisticate? Can't even pronounce the word, get hung up on the second syllable, sounds like I'm doin' a spit-take.

No, we're members of the Ancient Cosmic Brotherhood of Tooth, Grit and Hotsauce. Me an' my brethren is all up in that eldritch shit, the dark 'n' hidden truths underpinnin' the universe as we know it-an' also eatin' chicken wings with the kind o' scovilles'll give an incendiary assault rifle heartburn. Fact, now I think 'bout it, mostly we just wear blue dresses an' eat hot wing suppers second Sunday every other month. It's, like, all-you-kin-eat; if that ain't worth puttin' on a dress for, I don't know what is.

Jessup's stood guard by Raider HQ. Rolls his eyes when he sees me-leastwise, I 'ssume he does; never can tell behind that mask-and makes to skidaddle.

"Sir," I says, hella loud. "You, the soldier in the red sports bra."

Back to me, he shrugs-leastwise I 'ssume he does; never can tell beneath that sports bra-then turns back, reluctance in his every step. "Citizen," he says, voice calm an' colourless 'til he gets up close, whereupon he's all: "Jesus D.P. You trying to get me discharged?

"I've lost my cat," I say, over-loud. Other Crimson Raiders're lookin' on, amused by our discourse. "Where oh where could he be? Kind sir, you must surely help me reconcile with this wretched feline beast o' mine."

"Oh course, of course," Hastens me away 'fore someone asks why he don't delegate this chickenshit mission to a robot or idiot. "Right this way, citizen, and please, tell me the last place you-_what in hell's name do you want with me?"_

"Murder." I say. "Oh, I don't want you committin' none. There's been one, sort of acquaintance of mine and I need some assistance in cleaning it up."

"So talk to Marshall Friedman."

"Not this time. This here's Brotherhood business-you _is_ my brother, is you not?"

He sighs like a radiator venting gas and we do the shake. Left toes turned out-ouch-thumbs 'n' pinkies wagglin'. My left eye's shut; I'll 'ssume his is, too.

"Good," I says. "Now here's how it went down."

I tell him the whole dang deal as befits a member of the brotherhood. When I'm done, I can tell he's shaken. He's shaking, see.

"Crazy Earl never came to me with anything. As far as I know he hasn't said a word to anyone, not even to make excuses for leaving his post."

"His _post?_ He military too, now?"

"Hey, in case you hadn't noticed, we're in a state of emergency lockdown. Handsome Jack has-"

"Oh I seen what Handsome Jack's done," I says. "All us folks can't afford the privilege of flyin' into the sunset's seen what Handsome Jack's done."

"Sanctuary's open to all, D.P." He says it all reproachful like I done hurt his feelings. "It's right there in the name."

"Seem to remember a certain _brother_ o' mine running me right out of '_It's right there in the name_'. Under orders from his higher ups, I'm sure."

"You were being charged with abduction."

"It was a misunderstanding!"

"You had her over your shoulder! You were getting ready to paraglide both of you down to the Highlands!"

"Now look," I says, real clear so he'll understand. "I din't _know_ she was an actual human bein'. I thought she was a robot, like one of my dolls. A particularly _lifelike _one, I'll give you that, but she was covered in motor oil, her hair was half-coming off, she weren't movin' or breathin, her eyes was open but she didn't blink when I blew in them or nuthin'. Went over my shoulder like a bag potatoids, tell you what. If she'd _said_ something I'd've 'pologised, wouldn't've dressed her up in a little skirt an' stuff, and I'd set her back down where she belonged. Din't realise there was a problem 'til you guys came up screamin' 'n' wavin' yer arms. Scared the crap outta me, tell you what."

"That's just how Tannis sleeps, D.P. Dead to the world, with her eyes open, covered in motor oil. She only only sleeps once per month-and before you ask, no, I don't know what the deal is with the oil."

"Made her slippy," I say. "I like it when they're slippy."

Jessup shudders-leastwise I think he does an' so on.

"Y'know, she sent me a postcard. Dotted the eye in her name with a heart an' everythang."

"Oh, she'll do that. But it doesn't matter. Patricia Tannis is a little . . . _off_. Brass likes to keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn't wander too far out." He pokes me in the chest. Hurts a little. "Means keeping peckerwoods like you well away from that too-smart brain of hers."

"_Or-_and excuse me for my forwarditude; I know how the air up here affects your attitudes to what does and doesn't constitute _ess-ee-ex-_it means Roland's hitting that. Wouldn't be the first time he took a shine to one'a his lieutenants."

Jessup bristles, removes his helmet. He wears a dumb pair of shades underneath, thinks it makes him look cool or something; I swear, all these Crimson Raiders are nutso 'bout unnecessary eyewear. "You take that back," he says. "Roland's fighting for something he believes in, for the benefit of the whole goddamned planet. He could be taking bounties, selling us out, turning traitor. There's a lot of profit in being a turncoat, a lot of profit in keeping your head down and pretending like a paycheck's all there is to life, but a good-no, a _great-_man like that would never let his people down. Roland would never betray our trust."

I heard it all before: how Roland's our messiah, how he opened the vault and saved Pandora from the monsters within. He'll do it again, they say, an' they look at him all dewy-eyed, their hearts all full o' hope, an' they let the Raiders get about saving them while they sit on their keisters doin' squat.

Ain't like I ever been a people person but damnit, I tried. Ain't like I'm ever gonna save the world, neither. Not all of us was born to be heroes. Some of us is just folks, muddlin' through.

"Yeah, yeah." I say. "Just look into this little mess o' mine. An' if you need to get holda me . . ."

I gotta tinker with his ECHO, set up a sub-channel we kin converse over. That's why I came so far, at personal expense of wear 'n' tear to m'soul. if Hyperion military are involved-and like Jessup said, those that keep their heads down are rarely bothered by Jack's merry band of dumbasses; so long's I ain't in their way they don't give two craps what I get up to-that means the ECHO Network ain't safe. Network's probably what got Eddie killed for that matter. Guess I'll leave that investigation up to Jessup.

"There," I says. "Like two cans on a piece of string. Holler at me only on this channel-an' don't tell nobody. _Nobody._"

"Roland would help you out," says Jessup. "If you're in trouble."

Brother of mine or no, it's sweet he thinks all of life's problems can be that uncomplicated, that you can make a list of 'em, an' so long as you're a hero, tick 'em off one by one.

I'm about to tell him just what I think of that when my ECHO starts beepin'. Message on another private subchannel.

"That's what I'm afraid of." I leave Jessup to his pretend position in his pretend army. I know it means a lot-to him, to Roland, hell, maybe even a good number of folks from Pandora-but right now D.P.'s got more pressin' concerns.

There's a secluded back alley near one of the rocket booster thingamajigs powering the jets that keep Sanctuary afloat. If piss could shit itself, thats what it smells like. There's mildewed stacks of old napkins with the Dahl logo embossed in the corner that must've come outta the ship's canteen God-knows how long ago. Bandits've come and gone since then, and Lance and now Raiders. The napkins're all piled up, weighted down with cinderblocks, flutterin' in the hot breezes from the engine vents. Maybe they'll still be here when the Raiders relocate, teetering, neglected, peed on by cats. Maybe they'll outlast us all.

There's also a dumpster filled with broken textiles and empty paint cans and robot parts too damaged to be fashioned into something new. I hunker down, striped by shadows from aerials on the nearby garage roof and answer the call.

It's Margine, one o' my dolls. "D.P. baby," she coos. Her voice is kinda glitchy; she's in bad need of repair. "I'm afraid we've had a break-in."

"A _what?"_

But Margine has it right. Pappy used to have cameras set up 'round the ol' homestead, though the parts went bad over the years and the wires rotted. Never bothered to replace the lenses after he bit a grenade, but the network's still in place and I got all my ladies wirelessly connected.

Instructions squirt down the subchannel, loggin' me in. I tap in my code and the ECHO screen relays back the view from Margin's eyes.

My dolls are still there-though some've their clothes ain't-but drawers an' whatnot've been ransacked. The larder's empty-hell, even the can opener's gone-and the front door's kickin' in the wind.

Some call me dumb. Others, naive. I'm spoilin' for fight, all wired up, gettin' ready to take the fast travel back home when I realise it ain't external forces committed this.

Somehow it all comes together. Said it before, say it again: it takes me a while, but I get there.

An' damn, don't it hurt.

_Just help yourself to the turnips 'n' whatnot, _I said.

And she smiled as she said it. _Maybe we will_.


	5. Chapter 5: Get You Rollin'

**5.**

**Get you rollin'.**

Of course, she took everything. My guns. My money. My stack of eridium, the tiny one in the impenetrable safe to which I long since lost the combination-well, I'm '_ssuming_ it's gone, seein' as the entire damned safe has _vaminosed._

Were I to describe the state of my home to a friendly lawman passing by, r_ansacked_ is the word I'd use. But you remember what I said about the justice of the gun, right? Only gun I got left is Donna, and she ain't even my good one.

It's dark inside. Even the electricity's off, 'cause she musta stole the generator or somesuch.

On the back wall, amid its posters bought in better days loom large the shadows of my couch, my empty TV cabinet, my good 'n' long-dicked self. It's a tragedy, this starlit shadowplay: the fool, returnin' from his errands, discovers his princess was in fact a witch, all warts, deceit 'n' duplicity.

Tale as old as time, so they say. Shoulda seen it coming.

My dolls are here-which is somethin' I suppose-'cept they ain't been charged for a while and are mostly runnin' down. The older ones, whose frayed wigs need fixin' and whose skin ain't as clean nor as supple as it used to be, are dead already. They didn't fall like jackstraws; rather, they sat all prim on the bean bags before they went, slouchin' on the couch 'n' in corners. Their poor slack faces point down; they mighta been witnesses to the theft but they're facin' the wrong way. They mighta been an audience, but the show went on behind them. No repeat performances, not today. Only a fool and all he has left.

Margine's still up. Less perky than she should be, cord stickin' out her belly button, running to a useless power outlet. "Did I do a good job, D.P.?" she asks. "I sounded the alarm."

"You did just fine, sweet-pea. You rest now."

A button press-back of her neck, beneath her hair; skin as gently pink as clematis-and she's down for the count. Most o' these girls don't got enough sense for a memory wipe to matter, but Margine has just enough smartst. She loses power for too long, she goes forever.

Breach the first coupla rooms commando style, Donna under my chin ready to get up close and personal. It ain't quite as bad as I first thought-in fact, by the third room, it feels kinda sad. I'm patrolling my own ransacked house, papers from old missions on the floor, tungsten lamps overturned, my terrarium still empty where my bijou baby stalker died 'bout a year before, plastic leaves, dirt 'n' treasure chest turned out-though the toy castle where Ha'Penny used to stick his tail out the arrowslits is gone. Figure Maggie May took that as a toy for Junior.

When I reach my cot-sheets thrown out and stomped over-I just sit down. Hell of a state, this place. Never was tidy exactly, shelves all full o' dazzling things with no practical application, shinies and technical gee-gaws that took my attention. Most've my ECHO collection's still intact, though some movies is on the concrete and some of those is broken. The picture books of other places are still where they should be, with other continents on other planets painted and photographed, all beautiful, reminders there's more to the universe than this shithole right here. Even the skagg and bullymong skulls are still lined up, polished, grinnin' in a sheepish manner as if they wished there was somethin' they coulda done.

But if you could put more'n a dollar's worth on it, it's gone. Even the blankie Momma forgot when she went, the one I stole from Pappy when he was dead drunk, the one I swore still smelled pretty even though it mostly smelled like boobsweat 'n' cheap hooch, the one that made me think, no matter how many times she told me to skit while entertainin' Mr. Morris from down the road, no matter all the ways she hurt me when I was young, no matter that, when I got to old to feel it, she dragged me by the ear up to Pappy an' said _He's your problem now. _I guess it's junior's now, poor soul. Hope it brings him better memories.

It gets cold at night, down in the Badlands. Wasn't always the case. Once upon a time, the Badlands was real busy. Always bandits 'n' vault hunters zipping here and there. Off on a quest or some damn thang, big-ass guns, grenades, the kinda rocket launcher does so much damage you identify the bodies _via_ ink blot.

But things change, am I right? Never anything stays still for too long. Fyrestone-that was my base of operations. Chilled out there on many an eve, just me, my weed, the occasional tumble-dookie courtesy of some skag munchin', like, helium melons or some such. Ever seen a big ol' turd caught by the wind, skitterin' around, doin' its thang? Somehow, the last rays o' the day hittin' it, it's a beautiful sight. Still disgusting, should you get yer heels in it. Hell, maybe I was just high as the sky, thinkin' it was anythin' more than poop.

_Eridium_, the cause of and solution to all Pandora's problems. Shit's got a purple sheen to it, makes everything seem rare at first, gets y'all excited just to sniff it-and don't it smell like _power?_ Kind of a deep down stench, anchors itself in yer lungs, makes y'feel y'can do just about anything. The royal blue of a midnight sky, it smells like, and a blackened abyss filled with so many galaxies, solar flares, little specks of magic that taken alone mean jackshit, but shinin' together means _everything_. Charybdis hangs up there somewhere; Sora too. Lands of my father, and my father's father.

And my land's right here, dry as old scrote and dug the hell up. Some say Hyperion's to blame, and Handsome Jack at its head. I know this much: I know it to be true, but I can't help believin' it's down to no sole influence but a confluence of events fucked my home planet so bad. Vault Hunters don't treat the environment as kindly as they ought to. Hell, my footprint ain't so gentle as I could make it. We-all of us-made great, deep strides 'cross this starlit frontier.

The land grows barren in our wake.

Whatever. There's a catch behind one of the power outlets. Got to prise it off to get at it. Normally I'd use a screwdriver, or maybe Betsy's bayonet. Why'd you buy a sniper rifle with a blade fixed to its barrel, D.P.? Mosttimes kills get made from some distance, but every once in a while some psycho runs screamin' towards you, gets up in yer proverbial grill. I'm a pretty good shot at point blank range, though 'tween stock 'n' barrel Betsy runs a good couple feet, so's I'm not sure you could call it _close_ exactly. Never hurts to have a blade, though. Make throats run red, bellies spill 'n' whatnot.

Fingernails is bitten to shit, so I scrabble round, mortar falling like snow, 'fore I get my fingers up and under it. Outlet pops off, there's the switch, and _voila, abracadabra, presto change-oh. _Floor slides back 'n' there's my garden.

Didn't think I'd forgotten 'bout her, didja? I keep a spare magazine topped up with pre-rolled fatty-bombs on my belt, but this here's the motherlode, the plantation sensation, the _coup de grass-_and she's all mine.

See, I'm a farmer in my spare time. Not many of those left on Pandora with the dirt so hostile. As fortune had it 'fore he died Pappy fell in with a bad crowd o' botanists. Spliced a hardy indigenous crop-razorstick-with some nanoleaf of their own devising. Growin' up, me an' Breeg used to sell d-bags of this locally. Back in the day, folks landin' like sandflies to find how desolate, how _hard_ Pandora was, they all needed something to toke as bandits made off with their daughters and threshers took their sons.

Pappy's crop was their salvation.

Settlin' on Pandora was Pappy's one consolation towards sitting still. Sure, he lost limbs. Sure, he replaced 'em with experimental scrapyard cybernetics. He never did get quite the kind o' buzz off his harvest as all them other folks did. He could be a mean and jealous sumbitch, but he was smart, too. 'Stead of expanding his organisation by hirin' anyone other than his son and his son's best friend, he retro-engineered the nanoleaf, found out what made it work, and started making it work for him.

The result? Biotic cybernetic kush that eases your mind and fucks up your circuit boards. With unofficial assistance from Medi-Ken Corporation he engineered a micro-harvest narcotic that'll work on robots as well as human beings.

He got hisself killed 'fore the third generation was harvested, but I picked up his torch and used it to light a big ol' fatty. Started buyin' dolls to get it tested-beat-up ol' sex models wired for privacy, lest our crap got into the hands of the gigaconglomerates. Killed Richard Ricardo CEO of Medi-Ken myself, stop our secret blend gettin' out. Far as I know, I'm the only one got this kind of drug, available only through me, at whichever price I so choose. Bandits and loaders, roll up, roll up.

I call it w33d.

Takes me a while to check on it. It's all there, safe as a butthole in a eunuch's paddock. Was worried Maggie May might've found it, _Just help yerself_ and all that jazz. Under the UV, little crackles've green dream energy run in its veins. Four columns of bioelectric hydroponics, the walls painted with a mirror-silk gloss veneer so the crop reflects into infinity.

Time to make a withdrawal. Got to cash in some favours, you see. Going to do this thing right.

Herb scissors from my pocket and I'm clipping away. Each leaf smells, boy, smells _good._ All I kin do not to blaze up as I'm trimmin'. A little leaf here, a little leaf there. Got my first bag filled an' I'm about to start my second when I realise . . .

It ain't gonna be right, it ain't gonna be right at all.

An' if I _had_ been blazin'-if I _had_-you might say to me _D.P., that's just drug-induce paranoia._

To which I might respond by posin' this rhee-torical question: How're the UVs still glowing when Maggie May took the genny?

Dumb-ass, it's because _she didn't._

Yessir, I was wrong. Hey, it happens. Now I gotta move like hell, 'cause if I'm right about what went down, Maggie May's the least of my concerns

No time to pack the rest of my goodie bags. The frames the plants're on, bare steel with little holes for rivets 'n' the like; with them thin frond-like leaves poking out they start lookin' like jungle trees, like I took a spill off Highway 666 and landed down among the dead. Gotta stay calm. Gotta keep my nerve. Shouldn't be hard. After all, decent breath control comes part and parcel of bein' a sniper, same as havin' a stead heart.

But mine's starting to hammer, and my breath's coming in pants. It's all lumbering up now: the big scare rising from the swamp, creepers on its back, swamp shit underfoot, roarin' and tearin' and screamin' in pain . . . and I'll tell you why.

The w33d ain't entirely legal. Once upon a poem this place was Pappy's off-site farm. Paranoid fella was Pappy, beat me blue once when he was sure I gived away his addy to the Talonhook Bandits. Now it was only happenstance they shot our shit up, I sure as hell didn't give them nothin', but it was scare enough for him to make this place, this farm I now call home. _Make it look respectable_, he said, and me an' my hands-still smartin' from his whuppin'-helped assemble a homestead over the underground farm.

_Underground_, that's the most important part of it. Hydroponics means its the dampest part of this dry-ol' desert. UV means it's light even in the depths of the earth. And the power for the lights 'n' sprinklers, well, that comes from upstairs. I drilled the cables m'self, right through the dirt. Upstairs, the genny does overtime, supplying my w33d just as well as it does my hairdryer and laser-shave, 'cept it routes power for my home actual through landlines aboveground, which are as easily accessible as an outhouse.

Which is why nothin' electrical works upstairs. Someone cut the power, an' I can't think of any reason why it woulda been Maggie May.

There's only one way out of the greenhouse, and it's the same way out as in. What if they're up there? The guys with the military bootprints, the lobster-handed dude on their payroll? Yeah, screw paranoia. This shit is real as it is deep. What if they got their buzzards outside just waitin' for my bad self? What if . . .?

This ain't no open field, where I can strafe and shoot and pop heads like pickin' daisies. Only cover I got's my home, and if they followed me in-which they may well have done-I ain't got any recourse other than to lay low or get shot. Hell, last time we tangoed I only took a couple of them down, almost gettin' roasted in the process. If they're looking for payback, I should start stuffing breadcrumbs into my anus right now.

And they ended Crazy Eddie, and they tried to end Maggie May, and they're tryin' to end me, an' just what the hell can I do other than stone the fuck out?

I light a spliff from my hula-girl's head. It's a novelty lighter with hips that wiggle, generally kept far 'way from the w33d, but a guy's gotta toke what a guy's gotta smoke.

Take it in, hold it long. The digikush fills my brain with ones 'n' zeros. Wish a doll or two had followed me down among the plant pots for high and mighty times. Oh, how we'd toke, and blow smoke from our exhaust vents. It'd hang foggy in the air with no place to disperse. This hot house would be a _hot house,_ if you know what I'm sayin'. When they came to ventilate my brain, I wouldn't feel a thing.

Would Pappy go out like that? Guess not. Pappy, who reclaimed and rewired his own dang arm after that Vault-Hunter blew it off. He upped and moved from Charybdis to Pandora permanent after that, little knowing word of the Vault would get out among the stars. Sometimes I think 'bout the guy who done it, what went through his head, the thought processes that made him what he'd be. Even Vault Hunters had a purpose before Pandora was mapped out, I reckon. Some were particularly mean sons of bitches.

And I think of Pappy crawling, left elbow in his right hand. Way he told it, it musta been sixty klicks 'fore he found a doctor decent enough to stitch it back on. My dear cyborg father, torn between two worlds-he wouldn't cash his chips in, no sir, no way.

I'm getting a hit off of Donna's werx, here. Her electronics, her fancy digital bullet counter. Some drugs makes you feel closer to your fellow man; w33d does it for machines. Wakens up those ol' fish-senses in the roots of our evolutionary family tree. Go far enough back, we all knew where magnetic north was, could swim our way home from halfway 'cross the world.

I feel it in the lamps, in the current passing through the wires, in the dolls and in the genny, and the dozen or so appliances Maggie May didn't sell for cash. It's a cloud, sure as the smoke clouds the greenhouse, every charge mingled with the next so much so I can't tell no two apart. Be useful if I could, smoke deep in my lungs, electricity in my veins. Why, I could tell exactly how many of 'em was waiting for me, ready to storm my castle.

And then.

I arrived too eager to find out what Maggie May had stolen. I didn't check for visitors, nor stop to count heads. I was-I'll admit it-pretty _lax _for a goddamned master of stealth.

But my eyes are good as they ever are. Providing they ain't too far away, if there was a whole buncha soldiers I'd've seen seen _something._

First advantage: that means they're few in number. Second advantage: they can't have much in the way of vehicles, 'cause after the earlier buzzard attack I've been keeping 'em peeled, watchin' the skies. Third advantage: Betsy she ain't, but Donna here's no slouch. Sometimes all a man needs is his gun. Fourth advantage: they didn't cut the power to the secret underground w33d base I'm holin' up in, meanin', that they prob'ly don't know about it. Fifth advantage . . .

An' it all starts makin' sense. Bein' the humble sumbitch I am I'd let the w33d take credit, the clarity 'n' confidence 'n' ease of thought it provides . . . but really it's my superior intellect, the slow train makin' its deliveries.

_The genny._ Upground cables been cut, but the belowground ones function just fine.

It's still active. It ain't been took. It's _still active._

It can be blown.

It'll mean losing my crop, and hell, maybe my damned house if it catches fire, but I need a distraction and right now it's my only way out.

Pull out my hula girl, peel the casings off the wires. Follow them back as far as I can find.

Yup, there's the hole to the surface world. All hope of stayin' alive now revolves around blowing shit up.

I don't even turn back as I git. It's fizzin', oh, it's arcin'. I once heard that raw electricity smells like the ocean on Earth that was.. Ocean here's all dust 'n' sandworms; smells like dung 'n' spice and dead varkid been left in the sun too long. Some parts smell like tyres. Don't reckon that's how water oceans on other planets smells. Never been to the beach myself.

There's the hit of w33d as spark catches bud, and I'm hauling ass up through the hatch as the soft _whoomph_ of a generator back-firing gives way to the loud-ass explosions of all the gas cannisters I got back there: the freon, butane, tanks of acid-all the bad stuff that accumulates when you stay one place long enough. Never had impetus to move 'til now. Now I think about it, I could use a change of scenery.

Shouting at first. No gunfire. Just a couple voices, four at most, one on an ECHO loudhaler, barking commands. Folks runnin' drills outside my darkened homestead. Don't sound like nobody I ever heard before.

Not that I'm willing to stick around, introduce myself. Getting the hell outta bad situation's my middle name: D. Hightail P. Past my dolls, past Margine, through the doors. Can't take 'her with me. Screams outside, 'n' the first deadly rattles of ammunition on iron.

Can't do shit 'cept run.

An' then, as I exit my home, head down, bastard blazed, there's downdraft, roar and dust, an' maybe goggles aren't such a bad idea after all, an' a wetted neckcerchief 'cross my mouth would keep it all out, an' . . .

And it's nighttime, and my home is burning, and the ragtag bunch of soldiers who cut the power are lookin' anythin' _but_ ragtag, and they'repointing guns and opening fire, and something else explodes and maybe it's my head, and everything hurts until Maggie May says:

"Cling _tha fuck _to the ladder!"

-in a voice so far away I kin barely hear it over the whirlybird scream of the buzzard she's pilotin'.

It dopplers in, slides a few feet on past, bullets pinging off the rails, working their way up to her engines. Another of my tanks goes, but the soldiers are keepin' their distance, close to the flames. One deploys a turret on the side of my house; the walls are crumbling, the flames spreading fast, but it holds on well enough, sprouts legs and targets Maggie.

Her buzzard climbs at an angle, rounds thunking along the frame now; the damned thing judders like it's being bitchslapped. Every shot knocks it a few inches back, til it half-collides with one of the cooling chimneys on my roof-which, just like everything else, is shitting some serious smoke.

The buzzard drags a rope ladder behind it, that coils like a snake on a hot griddle. When it swings close I cling _tha fuck _on.

She rises; she rises fast. My eggs benedict's left far behind on the ground, which recedes like it's scared and running to hide. Three soldiers're shootin' from the fiery side of my house, small and gettin' smaller.

But there's more coming from across the far side of the plains, as if they was waitin' for just such an occurrence before intervenin'. From such a high vantage point I can see the cavalry, and it ain't comin' to save us.

"You 'kay?" yells Maggie May.

"Just about."

"Great. Now don't let go."

The thought never entered my mind, I'd tell her, yet it's what she's holdin' that's got my full attention.

That ain't no joystick. No gun, neither.

She primes it, drops it so's it whickers past my ear. Some cartoons, things fall, there's a sort of _whee-oooo_ sound 'til they splat in the dirt.

The grenade makes the exact same noise.

Then it's out of earshot as Maggie May climbs higher. Deafening winds and the ground zipping round and round below us. Wanna tell her I think our ride caught a bullet, that fuel's seeping into the sky, but down at ground level distracting occurrences is going on.

When it blows it sounds like a big cat growling in pain. Then-like the cat was stuck with something that hurt but, crucially, _did not kill it-_comes a worlds-loud hiss of retribution. It's like one of them domes they set up on planets without atmosphere, one of them air-tight city-bubbles bursting slowly, breathing out.

I can't see it but for a solid nut of black at the centre of the blast. What I _can_ see is my beloved homestead pulled piece by piece apart. It was already aflame; now the fiery bits is whizzing out in a circle, my rooms and stuff unravelling, my poor beloved dolls pulled limb from limb-even some w33d gets sucked into the vortex.

Speakin' of limbs, those military boys, their turrets, weapons, vehicles-even one of the hover-jeeps come to assist them, four more soldiers in Hyperion yellow-all getting pulled against their will into a baby black hole. Did I have a grav-grenade in my collection? I'm not so sure I did. Was this one of Maggie May's, smuggled under Junior's blankie?

The buzzard's starting to cough now. Maggie May finally realises, flips a switch, levels out. We wheel away, me struggling' to breathe while dangling from a rope, and we limp off into the distance on broken wings.

I still hear the 'sploison as the grenade finally ignites, mind you. Lord, but that's a big one.

"We're gonna be pursued," she yells, slightly lower altitude, slightly easier to breathe. "Got buzzards on radar. Can't outrun 'em like this. Gonna make a pit stop."

Ain't nothing I can say to change her mind. I'll just dangle, I guess, 'til we've landed somewhere safe.


	6. Chapter 6: Fix'er Upper

**6. **

**Fix'er Upper.**

The pit stop, well, _pit_ would be the most appropriate part of the phrase. End up in some kinda caldera, behind a buncha mountains I ain't never seen, let alone looked behind. Ain't so many hiker-types 'n' spelunkers on Pandora, so's we should be hidden real good. Walkin' to the middle o' nowhere, hangin' offa cliffs-them's just part of new frontier life, I reckon. Ain't nothing you want to do by way of passing time, for funsies. Them's activities best avoided, lest yer heart's set on gettin' killed.

Pumice an' onyx. Volcanic stone. Age-old lava trails. Fire-bellied snakes that once roamed the underground, long since frozen like petrified shit. We're deep in the planet's belly, now, just bidin' our time 'til the heat passes an' Maggie May gets our ride fixed. Roof ain't nothin' but brittle ash, compressed fer aeons 'n' crusted over. Piece of it fell in a long time ago; there's a jagged piece of sky peerin' down through the gap. Half expect it to point with a thunderhead or a column of smoke, beckon over every motherhumper on our tail. Seems to be the way our luck's runnin'.

Or maybe I'm just dour 'cause I stepped in somethin' stanky. Volcanic heat's mostly subsided over the years but there's still pockets've egg-stinking water here an' there. Now, in addition to my toes still feelin' like they're on fire, they also smell like butt.

Then there's the whole line of recent events still preyin' on my conscience, things like danglin' like bait, bein' shot at, an'-oh yeah, bein' _ripped the hell off._

"I kin make a patch job," says Maggie May-doubtfully, might I add. Now she's outta the cockpit I kin see Junior merrily strapped to her chest. One helluva airbag, you ask me. "Ain't gonna hold too well. Guess we limp on back to Loggins, figure out where we goin' next. Off-planet sound good?"

Transpires that Loggins-whom I sorta know, as it happens; he's one o' them flyboys always hangin' 'round Ellie's crib like gasoline stank-is an ex of Maggie May's. S'where the Buzzard came from, meanin' he's still head over heels or he owes her something big.

Leastways, that's my read of it. Can't 'magine why, but Maggie May's sorta cagey when it comes to her past.

"You been off planet, right? Space ain't exactly a freezer with the door closed-like, not much in the way of light but full o' tasty treats-she's a hard-assed bitch with a strap-on, lookin' to fuck any and all comers in the brown-eyed nebula. There's a reason Hyperion's got this whole world on lock down."

"Yeah," she says, strokin' her baby's head with a ferocity looks like it might hurt. "Jack wants to keep us in place: _this_ place. Case you hadn't notice the whole've Pandora smells like an omelette gone off. There's a whole mess of galaxies out there, fulla hidey holes an' decent places t' raise a kid. Better places, is what I'm talkin' 'bout." She shrugs, baby risin' an' fallin' with the cadence of her shoulders. "But whatever; it's your funeral. You kin stay here, D.P. Me an' Junior are gonna _git. _Now, hand me that wrench."

She's angry-when is she never?-but there's some weird peace comes over her soon as she starts smashin' the dings from the Buzzard. Glowbugs emerge as the shadows lengthen, not varkid, but harmless little fellers springin' out holes in the basalt. Soon the whole place is shinin' along in time to Maggie May's hammer, the whole cave throbbin' with every echoin' _chnk,_ 'til she stows it back in the repair kit and stashes that under the seat.

All the while the simmerin' tension that should be between us ain't there. When we first took ground I was a dozen flavours of mad 'bout all kinds of everything. But in all this time, with Maggie May hammerin' an' the bugs all a-glow, the baby ain't been cryin'. Neither one've us says much aside from _Pass me this tool _and one brief back 'n' forth on how to fix a hydraxial carbinator. She even starts singin' at once point. Voice like crap, frankly, but when the glowbugs sing along, it's pretty nice.

I light up once she's done. Ain't too many blunts left. Haveta ration, make it through this mess still pleasantly buzzed. Spark on th'end. Sparks on th' ground. Sparks in m'mind. "Answer me this, Maggie May . . ."

Sighs, wipes a smear of oil off her nose and out along one cheek. "You want to know why I stole your stuff yet still came back to save yer ass."

"That's about the measure of it, yuh."

"An' yer still anxious to get yer gun back. Yer Betty."

"Betsy. An' yes ma'am, I'd like that more'n anything on Pandora. Anything in the 'verse, mayhaps."

"Well, thissun here-" and here she pats Junior's head "-this is my Betsy. Only he ain't no gun. He's my flesh 'n' kin. Y'gotta do what's best fer kin. An' you, Mr. Benet, when I saw them Hyperion soldiers headin' your way wasn't no way I could leave you facin' the heat on your lonesome, not after all you did fer me 'n' him" She smiles a bit; wry's the word. "'Specially without that gun of yours-which, I notice, you're still without."

"That's 'cause Crazy Eddie's, th' guy you sold it to, he's dead."

This takes her aback. "Dead? Did _they_ get him?" Cups an arm 'round Junior, who's snifflin' now. Toppa his hair pokes above his papoose like the crown of a coconut.

"'_They'. _Sure. You get ridda my Betsy, _they _kill the buyer. I start investigatin' his murder, _they_ show up at my homestead. Not to mention, _they_ was the folks embroiled me in this whole palaver in the first place, whoever _they_ is-military, far as I kin tell. Acquisitional Armed Forces. Soldiers. Like you, am I right?"

I fix her with my meanest stare. Now, my eyes was made for starin' down scopes; lookin' into other folks' eyes, that they ain't so good with. They'll water on me, ayuh, an' get so uncomfortable I'll need to look away. All the world can seem a much more interestin' place when some other fella's starin' into your soul.

An' Maggie May, she looks right on back, holdin' tight to her piece of cute stuff in this crack in the ground outta sight of god himself, an' she says to me in this fear-stricken voice, she says:

"I don't even know anymore."

An' that's when we stops hidin' in the ground with chips on our shoulders and starts _discussin'_ thangs.

"Somethin'," says Maggie May. "Somethin' happened to my head. Can't place what it is exactly, nor where we was at when it happened. I know I was runnin', and I know I had Junior here and a bag full 'o military grade doohickeys I'd soon barter away. Kept it two days, big 'ol bag o' ordnance, camouflage green, stowin' it at the end of a cot I rented in some shot-up motel. Made me sick to look at it. Couldn't give it away fast enough-the dog tags, the guns. Traded some rare as hell SMG made outta gold for that P.O.S. gun you found me with. Only things I couldn't shift were the grenades which-pardon my interruption, but that was what tipped you off, am I right?"

That hurricane of violence, the grav-grenade going off. Yeah, I'd say that tickled my curiosity. "Jus' ain't the kinda weapon you'd 'spect to see on a mother."

"Loggins held onto them for me," she says, smiling wry again, lips tight, pale 'n' pressed together. "Sweet boy. Still sweet on me, if I know him well enough. Din't have no bother takin' me in, 'til he sees Junior. Says he kin set us up with a place but he's 'just too young' to be a father. A real fly boy, if you know the type."

There's a world of hurt in them pretty blue eyes'a hers. A world of confusion, of regret, all lookin' for a way to be free.

"Reckon I still wasn't thinkin' straight by the time you found me. Put it down to bein' a mother if you like; Loggins told me a mother's brain shrinks when she's pregnant an' don't recover for months. Warned me all 'bout 'post partum depression'. Knows an awful lot 'bout motherhood, for a boy who ain't keen on bein' a daddy."

She thinks 'bout this fer so long I feel the need to interject. "So did yer brain shrink? That what happened to your head?"

"What? Lord, no! Fer one thang, whatever happened to it was real sudden; I remember that much. I was muddled fer days after. Put my boots on the wrong feet, forgot my name once or twice. Sold that rare frickin' gun without a second thought-'til now, as it happens." She laughs. "Called up an old boyfriend for that matter-don't get much dumber or more confused than that. But for the other thing?"

She lifts Junior. Even he's quiet now, like he can't wait to hear what comes next. "This cherub here, light of my life, my beautiful, beautiful boy. D.P."

An' she looks straight at me again, still in pain, gaze carvin' rents through the shadowy bowels of Pandora.

An' my dolls-I love my dolls. But hell if I don't see, next to this woman an' child, that my love ain't nothin' but a pale ghost of somethin' that actually _is._

"This boy ain't even mine, D.P. I mean, I feel it in my heart that he is, but I ain't got no stretch marks, nor swollen feet nor-my boobs, pardon' my French, but they don't give no milk. I love the tyke all I can-all the love in the world. But I don't think I gave birth to him. I should remember givin' birth, don't you think?"

Beats me. Me an' my Momma was never too tight. She got exasperated lookin' after me and oilin' Pappy's joints I reckon, an' got out while the goin' was still good. "_It'll just be us boys from now on,"_ he said to me, lightin' up an' lookin' at the horizon. Back in them days there was still a spaceport out 'tween the mountains and plenty of interplanetary traffic. The trails of lights was like upward-fallin' snow. People leavin', not so many comin' down-rumours that the previous generation of settlers was turnin' cannibalistic an' mutatin' ain't exactly a thing you can put in a travel brochure. "_She's a sissy, like all the others, boy. All these spineless folks that can't hack Pandora."_ He spat phlegm, w33d smoke an' oil, stainin' the dirt, stainin' the sky. "_We're gonna crack this bitch open and she'll come runnin' back, you see if she don't. We're gonna be proper folks, D.P.-proper folks, remember that."_

"What _do_ you remember?" I says to her. "Before runnin'?"

"Tried not to think about it. Didn't think I remembered much at all, yet I remember how to fly a buzzard and I remember how to prime a grenade. An' every time I look up there-" an' here she nods to the jagged line of the sky above, where reg'lar as bowel movements moon rises an' falls. 'tween us groundstuck losers and the rest of space, Hyperion's orbital base casts a capital H across the land. "Every time I see that space station it's like I kin see right inside it. All the corridors, laboratories, mess-halls and armouries; I could sketch a floor plan easier'n wiping up Junior's dookie. The whys of it I can't say fer shit, but I _know _that place. I remember . . . I think I remember runnin' from it. An' that's why me an' jim need to get off Pandora. Whatever made me run, whatever it is made me forget, I never want to look up at the sky an' see that thing again."

We all have stuff we're runnin' from, I s'pose. Fact is, Maggie May's story scared even my brass cajones. I wanted to be mad at her, for losin' me my gun. Now we've sat down 'n' talked things over, I'm sad more'n anything else.

Junior senses it too; starts his hitchin', gets ready to bawl. Absently, she bobs him up'n' down, restin' him on her hip.

"I could get you to Sanctuary,' I say. "Know some folks there'd be happy to help, so long's you keep my name on the D.L."

"Can't." Abrupt. Snapping, almost. "Sanctuary's dangerous-I remember that, too."

"Aw, it ain't so bad, so long's you don't have no affairs with its scat-brained citizens-who absolutely will come onto you, no matter what their friends say occured."

"No, it's _dangerous._ Least ways, it is for me." She looks at the baby now, almost like she'd forgotten he existed, then hooks him back into his holster. "D.P. I appreciated everything you've done fer us, an' I'm regretful if I ever took advantage of that. I know yer gun's still missing and it's a hell of a thing what happened to that old artist. But with me saving your life an' all I reckon we're square, so don't feel responsible for us no more. Don't mention us to your friends in Sanctuary-in fact, don't mention us at all. Forget you ever met us, D.P. It's probably for the best."

I _could _stick by her. Some might say I should.

An' maybe there _is_ a way off-planet. One I admittedly can't think of right now, but that don't mean it's an impossibility. To get out of this crevice and head for the stars. Charybdis, birthplace of my father, an' Solia, and McGee, and all manner o' new frontiers a man could settle down and start from fresh. Hell, my home's a smokin' crater now, an' all that remains of my crop is the pouch around my waist.

An' maybe they don't need killers so much on those other worlds, so I maybe I could find some other preoccupation. Maybe somewhere out among the stars life ain't so hard.

_Proper folks. Remember that._

But that wasn't the spirit of Nathaniel Atlas, who first settled Pandora near eighty years ago; it wasn't the spirit of Pappy and it ain't the spirit of me. We choose to stay put an' do the other things not 'cause they're easy, but 'cause they sure as hell _ain't_ easy.

"Well then," I say to Maggie May, an' my eyes are waterin' 'cause that's sometimes what they do. "Reckon once you're up an' flyin' you kin drop me off somewhere close."

An' she nods over her child, restin' a hand on the steel frame of Loggins' buzzard where a lava-bug throws sunsets 'cross her knuckles. "Thanks for not makin' things difficult, D.P." she says. "I knew you'd understand."


	7. Chapter 7: Angel

**7.**

**Angel.**

Long as I kin remember, I've had this dream of fallin'.

It's the squares, you see. The feelin' of bein' reborn. I'm lookin' into the light and it's lookin' right back, and when I wake I hurl meals from the last damned week all over my goddamned boots.

Voice from the next room over. Smell of bacon; greasy air. "You havin' a bad dream sugar? Maybe you don't be wantin' these beans, these taters, this hog, those eggs . . ."

Even as I puke my last, the list goes on an' on.

Sanctuary's a relative term.

Place right here, it ain't flyin' 'tween the clouds. Ain't no undercity neither, no highly-fortified flyin' saucer in the ground. All it is is an outpost, far from the madding crowd.

Suits my host just fine. "See you emptied yer belly," she says, hauling her plate in from the kitchen-near enough to start me off again. Waffles, pancakes, three types of fried bread, four kinds of condiments. Ellie's appetite's a fierce one.

Table groans under weight of her platter. She sets aside a plate fer me, just in case.

"Got coffee, or whatever. Ground up firebeans. S'pose a milquetoast like you never tried firebean coffee before. Do you good, get it down."

Shaky hand as I pour. Helluva week.

"You're feelin' better," she says through a mouthful of breakfast. "Pale as death last night. Thought you'd up an croak, 'fore you upped and chucked. Don't mind 'bout the carpet, by-the-by. Got a pal of mine on it."

"Thank you kindly, Miss Ellie."

"Oh, don't mention it! Wouldn't be worth having no Claptrap nearby if it didn't help with the chores none. Hey, Clapper-trapper! You done moppin' up D.P.'s puke yet?"

Robot comes in, wheel skiddin' in oil. Breakfast is served in the garage proper, empty of all but oil stains for the moment. "Mistress Ellie!" robot says. "I was just thinking about what you told me regarding stains, puddles, messes, mistakes. So deep was I in thought regarding-for the moment at least-the fastest and most efficient way to erase the acidic mass of proteins, enzymes, animal and vegetable matter currently coagulating on the office carpet, I'm afraid the mass itself had completely slipped my memory circuits. You have my deepest apologies and heartfelt reassurances I shall attend to it _post haste_; that is to say, without further dawdling, procrastination, consideration, or indeed confabulation, I shall go about my duties, be duty-bound and dutiful, re: your houseguest's foetid puke-pile."

"Yeah? Well see that you do. _An' stay the hell away from my piledriver."_

She calls this out with the robot wheelin' outta sight. "Momma recently sent me some demolitions gear, on account of her guilt over how things is sour between us at the now. Technically speakin' the piledriver's for construction work, flattenin' ground, that sorta thing. _I _use it to flatten folks who piss me off. Ever since Claptrap came out here on an exchange program, whenever my back's turned he's been tryin' to get amorous with her. Just has a thing for larger ladies, I guess." She chuckles. "Guess I can understand that 'n' all. You be wantin' a slice o' this headcheese? Fried it myself."

"No, ma'am."

"Oh, you 'n' your 'ma'ams'." The fried head cheese is crispy; crunches when she speaks. "Ain't no madams here, thank you very much. Must be thinkin' 'bout my momma."

I met Ellie's momma, once upon a winter. There's some girls as makes you pay for it, and some as gives it up for free. Moxxie's not exactly particular as to who she gives it up for, but make no mistake: money don't necessarily exchange hands but there's always a price to be paid.

Ask how she is, just makin' polite conversation. Pretty sure the Claptrap cleanin' up my sick's the same one whose keister I got up inside back at Sanctuary.

"Oh, same old, same old. 'Ellie, when you gonna settle down? Ellie, when you gonna find yourself a man? Ellie, when you gonna start eatin' celery 'stead of candy-bar bolognese?' Your Momma ever nag on you to an irresponsible degree?"

"Reckon she doesn't, ma'am. Truth be told, she always seemed at odds as to what to do with me."

"Maybe that's for the best." Another forkful, syrup dripping down her chin. Must be feelin' better 'cause breakfast's startin' to smell mighty tasteful. "Problem with Momma is how she thinks her baby girl oughtta grow up in her image. Scooter, my brother, he was left to get on with bein' a man, but I was s'posed to be graceful 'n' ladylike. Used to give me women's mags, all beach bodies 'n' sex tips. Know why they call 'em 'magazines'?"

Can't say I do.

"It's 'cause they're full of ammunition, all aimed at girls like me. Hell, I'm just as much a mechanic as my baby brother, but _he's _the one off on the Crimson Raiders' flyin' island while I'm down here playin' with m'navel. Not that I begrudge yer company of course, sugar. You know better'n that."

"Maybe it's better folks like us have a place like this," I says. Take the plate Ellie set aside an' a bottle of maple ketchup still warm where she dropped it in a hot jug of water. First forkful's the headcheese. Damned good. "Folks who don't erstwhile fit in. You. Me." Stick a thumb at Claptrap, dancing the fandango with a dirty mop. "Him."

"_He's_ getting his ass bounced back to Sanctuary, 'less he stops leaving dirty tyre tracks in the suds. But thanks, sugar. I ain't too concerned 'bout being left to fend fer myself. But a lady _can_ get lonely without company, and since Loggins went 'way with that friend of yours . . ."

Which is how I came to be here, if you was wonderin'. Ex he might be, but Loggins left me in no uncertain terms that he meant to get back into Maggie May's pants.

Not that she'd let him, 'course. I mean, I don't believe she would.

"Thought he was something of a blowhard myself." I says. "Always wearin' that dumb airman's suit. Liked volleyball way too much too, ask me. Like, what would you call a man likes volleyball that much? How'd you even communicate with a feller like that?"

Shrugs, makes a noise like _Iunno_ through her breakfast. Good breakfast as it happens. Cook, greasemonkey, cyber-frickin'-genius. There anything Miss Ellie can't do?

I'd smoke, after, only there ain't so many w33d-sticks left. Coulda woulda shoulda replenished when there was still time. Don't remember cold turkey bein' anything to be 'fraid of, though it has to be said, I been stoned so long it's practically my way of livin'. Helps me understand my dolls better, I reckon.

My dolls, gone same way's my stash. Sad, alla sudden.

"Aww, hun. You dry those tears." Misconstruin' the situation; just got the memory o' smoke in m'eyes. Ellie flaps a napkin in m'face. "There'll always be another woman on the horizon, tell you what. Why, you take my baby brother. Face like a chimpanzee an' he don't let _nothin'_ get him down. Women, they come 'n' go. Friends? Well, they'll stick by you through thick 'n' thicker. That's how you know what true friendship's all 'bout."

S'what I'm contemplatin' whilst out reclaimin' scrap off the desert. Ellie ain't got much in the way of credits but keepin' my head down's payin' fer itself. Always carry Donna with me, but the nearby bandit tribes is bein' quiet-wildlife too. Even the skies breathe easier, just a few rakk wheelin' off in the distance, prob'ly thinks to some ol' fashioned family feud 'tween Hodunks and Zafords, two identical bunches of assholes live none-too-distant. Ellie cackles 'bout their misfortunes sometimes. An' there are always vault-hunters cruisin' through on commandeered vehicles, pickin' off stragglers. Reckon they make work easier for me, pickin' through fenders an' busted up shootin' irons left behind in their wake. Lost my own taste fer killin', for the moment.

Eventide, I like to sit out on them big striated rocks out of varkid's way, watch fiery, glowy spider-ants frollick 'mongst bandit bones, consider whether or not to blaze, whether the evenin's beautiful enough to make it worthwhile, and think about the sky. How it's, like, _everywhere_, man. Holdin' Pandora in its hand.

An' it goes on forever: that's the thing. Loggins made heap big talk 'bout bein' smart enough to get them off planet. _I'll get you where yer goin'_ he says, an' last I sees him he 'n' Maggie May are lookin' over their shoulders, makin' sure I stay put, an' Junior's there too, wavin' his li'l fists, sayin' so long, 'less that's all in my 'magination. If he fulfilled his promise they could be anywhere right now.

There's so many worlds, each with its own unique features. Who knows what they hold? You'd have to be smarter'n me to guess. Like, maybe this vault every hunter'n his tabby cat came planetside lookin' for, maybe there's more of those things out there. Maybe the rare and precious eridium Handsome Jack's tore half of Pandora up looking for, maybe it's bountiful as air an' he just ain't lookin' in the right spot.

Hard not to think 'bout Jack, his initial in the sky like a giant turd with wings. _H_-I know that one. I ain't so great with readin'. Bounties is easy enough, _I want this guy dead_, yadda yadda yadda, but I don't read no literature like Miss Ellie, who always has her nose in a novel. _What's that one about?_ I ask, 'n' she says it's like, backwards religious folk who don't use technology gettin' all hot under the collar 'cause they don't have ess-ee-ex. _It's m'steamy book, _she says, an' fans herself with a hand.

I went back home, just the once. Din't want to tempt fate. Found Lorelei out in the dirt, though her features was so burnt took a while 'fore I recognised her. Motor centre was scorched; musta pulled herself outa the building still on fire, lookin' fer safety. Miss Ellie says she's beyond repair, but I take her out to the rocks with me an' it's like a picnic. Two lovers, feelin' the night breeze, starin' at the sky.

One heard you can make wishes on fallin' stars. Always plenty of those with Jack's station up in heaven.

"Y'ever think of procreatin'?" I asks. Lorelei don't say nothin', but then, she never was one fer talkin'. "I'd've made a good father, woman gave me the chance. Not too strict. Not too lax. Teach my kids respect without beatin' shit outta them. Teach 'em how to shoot a man, but also-" an' here I take a puff; might not be much left but damn if it ain't knock-yer-socks off powerful "-how to make a kill _righteous_. I mean, work's work and a dollar's a dollar, but y'gots to follow through. Or leastways, know when to quit. Doff yer hat when yer outclassed. Acknowledge the superior force."

Three flashes, bright as stars on the Hyperion H. Three loaders, fallin' like angels.

_If Breeg could see me now._

Squeakin' of a tire catches my attention. Light dances over the stripes of the earth like one o' the glowbugs escaped the trench in the caldera where me 'n' Maggie May hid. Bounces back 'n' forth from Ellie's garage, gettin' closer, accompanied by a romantic tune hummed off-key, out of time.

"Evenin' Claptrap."

Squeakin' stops, as does the singin'. "Master D.P.! I didn't expect to find you out in the darkness, where harm might befall you courtesy of thieves, bandits and synthe-jackals."

"No? Then why y'out here? Ellie send you?"

"Yes!" he says. "Yes, that's precisely why I'm out at such a late hour, dancing under the moonlight and suchlike. I'm certainly not making romantic gestures in hopes of ensnaring a paramour."

"Now Claptrap, you know well as I do Miss Ellie'd be just livid were she to catch you mountin' her ground-poundin' death machine."

"That old slut?" Robots could spit he'd be hoikin' under the stars. "Puh-lease! I have my sights set on hardware that's far more nubile. A rare beauty, she is, such as the robotic world has seldom seen. I'd burst my tyre on thumbtacks, then crawl on my casing through a nest of hungry starving rust-beetles just to take one of her exhaust emissions into my ventilation system."

"An' who might this lucky woman-bot be?"

"Alas, she has no designation that I know of. But-oh, there she is, now!" Points with a manipulator. "Is she a friend of yours? You should put in a good word-I . . . I'm not used to socialising with such _high-class framework_." As I'm startin' to figure out just who in hell the poor fella's so head over wheels for, he turns, gives himself a pep talk: "Okay buddy, act cool and for the love of God don't let her know that for a robot of your model and sub-build your retractable data outlet is inadequately sized."

This point, s'pose I should be sayin' somethin' to Lorelei. Harsh reality of it is he an' her is a far better match than we ever was. Took her face bein' burned clean off for me to see it. I mean, she's still pretty to me an' all, I still love her, but we're _different_ she an' I. What I'm feelin', what I felt, that ain't part of her programmin'.

I'll still box his antenna in, if she wants. Women appreciate a good show of strength, and there ain't nobody stronger than D.P. Benet.

But I can't keep her with me. Even a robot's heart goes where it will.

All this I should be tellin' her an' more. But them angels I saw flyin' out from heaven? The ones that looked like wishes when so very far away?

They're closer now, an' they don't look like wishes at all.

"_Fer Christ's sakes, you robotic dumbass, git the hell down!"_

We brought mosquitos to Pandora. Hitched a ride on livestock, thrived on local wildlife. Drier climate than Earth-that-was, but I guess they mutated. Bothered Breeg more'n me; always slappin' his neck, arms, legs, bitten all over, lump-ridden sumbitch.

An' y'always knew when one was near, 'cause of the whinin', see, far off and needle sharp.

Needles on metal. Needles on bone. Screamin' so loud it's like the night found its voice, an' seein' what's happened to its dear child Pandora, it stretched flaming fingers and gouges up the land.

Three of 'em hit with barely a breath between as I'm runnin. The screamin' stops, the world _bounces_-swear to God. Three sucker punches, smashin' the desert with merciless fire, an' the picnic plateau shatters to flinders an' Lorlei's razed to dust, an' the heat they're givin' off burns my skin even as the contents of each fireball unfurls and stands tall.

Maybe I feel responsible, 'cause I rescued his butthole from the Vault Hunter, or maybe it's simple reflex 'cause it's me an' Maggie May been rescuin' each other back 'n' forth forever. She's gone now; I watched her go. Her an' Loggins and sweet little Junior. Just me an' Claptrap left, couple losers with a predilection fer lifelike skin.

Maybe I'm panicking, an' maybe I'm oversharin', an' maybe m'dick ain't so big as I always claimed it was. Maybe I don't even care what I'm sayin'.

Thing is, I kept my head down. Spite of soldiers, Hyperion, the whole shebang, all I ever wanted was my gun back. Hang Maggie May! Hang Crazy Eddie! And sure, hang the littlun, too! They took m'farm, m'home, m'last remainin' girl.

An' now?

Now they're comin' for me.

It's robots from the moon, see. Ain't nobody gets loaders flung at 'em, less Handsome Jack's _pissed._

'Tween inarticulate yelps, 'cross a desert littered with rocks that make each step a tripping hazard, Claptrap finds voice enough to yell back into the flame: "_We'll come back for you, my beloved! We'll still find time to save yooooou-_owch."

"_Shut up."_ Wish there was more I could say as I drag him on. Something smart. Something funny.

But right now the robots are gainin', and life don't seem so hilarious no more.


	8. Chapter 8: First Law Disabled

**8.**

**First Law Disabled.**

I'll tell you how it went down, so when I'm done you might not think much less of me.

The tactical lay-out-the field map, if you will-shows a measly three loaders 'gainst a man and a mobile garbage can. The can just had its heart broke. The man?

If a robot can be said to have a heart, maybe the man can, too. As to the state of said heart, after all it's been through it's prob'ly best not to say.

But the loaders, they don't got hearts nor emotions nor veins to bleed from. What they got is flamethrowers, assault rifles, rocket launchers 'n' grenades. Where they're aiming 'em is _right up my dillhole_.

S'pose it's been nice to have a week's respite. Good eats, good comp'ny, not much in the way of anything makin' the days less than pleasant. Almost forgot what it was like to run fer my life, which you'd better believe is what I'm doin' right now.

Lotta ground to cover 'tween my picnic spot 'n' Ellie's Garage. It's just about the only shelter I kin see, 'less I wanna hide in one of them 'refrigerators on the junk heap like a goddamned jackass. Lotta ground and even more bullets, and fast as both are whizzin' by, the bullets're whizzin' faster.

Which ain't to say the slower movin' rockets are any friendlier. Claptrap finds his feet-wheel, whatever-just 'fore one 'splodes right in our path. Knocks us on our proverbial asses. Reckon I got a month's worth of half-healed injuries unknitting faster than a sweater in a ceiling fan. My toes was lookin' almost swell when I put my boots on this morning; now it's like they're tryin' to recede back into my ankles.

"We're done for!" shrieks Claptrap, thrashin' about like an upended turtle. "Oh God, going to die and I never got to visit the Sistine Chapel!"

"_Move!"_

Back throbbin' like techno I get up, push him on, skirt the crater of the first impact while another opens behind us. They're rainin' hell on us now, openin' up with althey got. Bullet zings through my arm, snaggin' muscle tissue as I'm reachin' for Donna. Don't need t' look back to see they're gainin'.

Head down, keep movin'. Claptrap finally finds purchase in the dirt, starts movin' of his own accord. One of the Loaders loudcasts some _Speak 'n' Spell_ bullshit, _Halt and obey _or _Cease and desist_ but they ain't exactly givin' us space to come along peaceably. No sir, they're stompin', shootin' splattermachines, and they're chasin', closin' in.

Spiderant babies run out 'cross our path, hissin' agitation, divin' into warrens. Metal pounds dirt, hard, heavy, increasin' in volume .

Another whine. Another scream. Another line of fire in the sky. More loaders landin', kickin' up the desert, cuttin' us off from Ellie's.

"This way!"

Careenin' to the left now, half trippin' on some insect unfortunate enough to skitter underfoot. Catch a sidelong view of the closest RPG loader blowin' smoke out his shoulders, sendin' clouds of holy angels in our direction.

One flies so close I feel it sizzle. Weaves right between my head 'n' Claptrap's antenna impactin' the earth in an explosion that shakes the ground.

Claptrap don't even notice. Guess it's possible the detonation shook some sense into his yellow spine. "Don't worry, human!" he says. "Claptrap will save you! I'll transform into my vehicular state, and T-Bob us both to safety!"

Arms retract 'til only his manipulators poke out his angular shell, and he hunkers down on his wheel, all the while making these sounds like he's coughin' up a hairball. "Now!" he says. "Climb aboard."

We make it a full eighteen inches 'fore he keels over and crushes my foot.

Thing you should know 'bout your good pal D.P. I have what you'd call an affinity for robots. First purchases Pappy ever made on Pandora was old generation loaders, utility bots an' the like. 'Fore money was in short supply-though not so short I din't sleep in a drawer 'til I was five-and 'fore he got injured, robots was all over our homestead. They took care of Momm an' me when Pappy was off-world collectin' bounties. Hell, but for Breeg, you might say robots was my best friends.

So believe me when I say havin' one break your foot off while a half-dozen more crap grenades up your butt's a helluva thing.

I'm still screamin' an' clutchin' my ankle as one of them pineapples goes off loud enough to make m'ears ring. Thing like that'll put your priorities in order, I can tell you.

Hand over hand, elbow over elbow, ankle a buncha sparks, toes God knows where, I drag' myself through the heady bouquet of fused dirt an' cordite. Craters behind me, craters ahead, gunfire everywhere, salvation MIA.

An' I get to thinkin, just how the hell did we get into this mess?

Momma always told me fairy tales of whole planets never touched by war, but Pandora gets the peacekeepin' forces, Pandora gets the bandits, Pandora gets the orbital deathstations, Pandora gets _this._

They're swivelling on their waist-joints, rotatin' as they move. Lumbering, heavy, muzzles belchin' fire. They're convergin'-I see it like I was a Rakk way up high-they're movin' in on the epicentre of all this pain, an' that epicentre just happens to be me. God knows where Claptrap run off to. After righting himself he skedaddled, leavin' me done fore

Ironic that the only friends I ever had are stampedin ' forth to rupture my spine. Far ahead atop a distant mesa overlookin' this sorry scene bandits stand in front their fires. Hard to tell, them bein' so distant, but it looks like they're enjoyin' the show. They dance among the flames, not rootin' for no particular side. If this were one of Momma's storybooks I'd 'spose Breeg would be up there 'mongst the flyboys and recognise his ol' buddy D.P. He'd zoom to his rescue in a buzzard he'd purloined, an' on our way to safety we'd make amends over how our friendship went sour.

Been an awful lot of buzzard-based shennanigans in my recent history; I sure could stand another.

But beneath the stars an' ringed by fire, luck falls only on the warbots' side. Every shudderin' footfall brings them closer, their missiles an' bullets inches from my hide. Another line of fire blossums in my path. AGUNner opens fire an' the desert screams. Bullets shatter the rain-starved dirt an' varkid babies slither out the cracks. Fresh gunfire chews their carapaces to bits; still hungry it bites into my leg. It should be numb by now, just a useless, crushed sack o' nuthin', but it sings its pain and oh, it's comin' off, it's all rollin' to an end, it's all fadin' to black.

It's comin', the white light. I kin see it out there, hurtlin' t'wards me, an' maybe I'm ready, 'cause I can't be doin' with fightin' no more. Pointless, it is, and this is the end. Why, it'd take a ten tonne miracle to save my worthless hide.

Some says Pandora has its angels. My earliest memories us of singin' hymns, prayin' our voices might be heard by somethin', _anythin'_. Bloodshots'd raze our wooden church again and again, an' every time the dwindlin' folks of our good community would raise it back up, a coop for God's followers, a place for us to crow our loudest.

Hell, I still remember the words to Pastor Barnes's favourite psalm:

_For he shall give His angels charge over you_

_To keep you in all ways._

_In their hands they shall bear you up_

_Lest you dash your foot-_

But there ain't no such thing, is there? Like dolls, picture books 'n' best friends. Angels is for babies

An' suddenly, there she is, wreathed by light an' thunderin' like the Lord come forth to carry me home.

"_YEEEE-HAWW, YOU RUSTY SUMBITCHES! MOMMA'S STOMPIN' FLAT YER EVER-LOVIN' CIRCUITS!"_

Miss Ellie is in _good_ voice. She sings 'bout rubber trees an' high hopes an' it's all comin' over the loudspeaker strapped to her piledriver's roof. Magnificent thing it is, wrapped in barbed wire, lit up like a Mercenary Day tree, huge 'n' roarin' an' bringin' its trunk down _thwomp_ on a Loader just as the dang thing raises its-fer want of a better word-head.

It bursts through the bullets like a fresh breath of wind. It's a real hodgepodge of parts Ellie must've thrown together herself. Front end reminds me of one of them steam pumps out in Three Horns, only it's big enough to crush a Loader thin as a coin, which it does, most efficiently.

Bots don't know what hit 'em. Another goes down under the piledriver's treads, munitions whizzin' off in a deadly-as-shit fireworks display, 'fore it rumbles past, ground quakin' an' _indentin'_ like it's only just strong enough to hold Ellie's behemoth. Over one of the many exhaust pipes on its back is a crudely drawn sign: a red circle with a line through it. Based on the contents of that ring and the lewd gesture said contents is makin' I guess it means _No Claptraps-an' _especially _no Claptraps screwin' my goddamned hardware._

Thing halts, backs up, beeps as it reverses. If the forward motion hadn't killed the loader it's sure as hell dead now.

"Well ain't you a mess!" says Miss Ellie. Rounds zing off the frame and there she is in the middle, givin' exactly no damns. "You hold on while I finish these suckers off?"

Ain't got the words to say _No ma'am, _but she gets the message soon as I crawl up the steps to the cab. Leans down, pulls me up. Massive upper body strength; I like that in a woman.

Stick shift and we're headin' into the bulletstorm. Takes me a moment t'realise: Miss Ellie done engineered this thing fer action. Forefields 'cross the cage, absorbing fire in ripplin' pools of electric sheen. "Well, okay. But you make yerself handy, understand? An' try not to bleed all over m'good paintwork. Check it."

She hits a button an' the back-ass of the piledriver cab opens like a treasure chest. Even in the heat of Hell it's like choirs of angels and God hisself shinin' heavenly light. Layers slide back like a puzzle box. In the middle, swaddled like a holy infant . . .

"Angina," she yells. _Thwomp,_ an' another Loader's days is done. Miss Ellie hiccups. "'Scuse me, Moment I heard we had company I scarfed down supper real quick. That there-be _careful_ with that-that's my Momma's."

I lift it into my arms, examine its curves.

It? No, this here gun's a _she_.

Miss Ellie goes on as I turn it over. "Momma called it her _Heart Attack. _ S'pose she meant it to kerb m'predilection fer pork rinds-haw!"

More moonshots catch my attention. Loaders be rainin' down somethin' fierce. Here on the pilediver the whole world's world's vibratin' like we might fall 'tween its atoms, but I still see more've 'em openin' like flowers. Gettin' to be too many, I reckon. Gotta hope Miss Ellie's a better judge of threat than I am.

"Anyways," she says. "As with all Momma's gifts I gotta look in the bright side. Modified that sucker, souped up the chamber, added incendiary at first, I remember rightly. But that sucker _don't fer the love of chitlins touch that trigger._ Honest t' God, D.P! Aim it at the enemy _before_ pullin', y'hear me? That sucker, that's a weak-spot finder. Eridium over-charged, matches all manner of damage. Makes 'em glow like day before homin' the heck in. Think you can handle it?"

Brace Angina against the piledriver's vent array an' nod. Already I feel my pecker gettin' up.

"Well then," says Ellie. "Exhaust points back, missile points forth. Reckon yer fit to lay down some suppressin' fire, do ya?"

More moonfire, brighter 'n' brighter, an' all the Loaders turnin, all their guns blazin'.

"Yes'm," I whisper. "Reckon I am."

When she punches the piledriver into turbo I don't even notice. When the vents 'pon which I'm restin' open up and blue fire blazes into the night, I hardly pause to think.

'Cause leg aside, death aside, Maggie May and Junior aside, I'm checkin' my list an' checkin' it twice.

Wind's burnin' hot, faster'n a hurricane. Mind's caught 'tween this world an' the next, seein' everythin' an' nothin' at the same goddamned time. All the world's a whirl, a distant fancy tango of death machine and bulletflowers and time slowin' down. The piledriver's workin'; oh, it's workin' all right. It's poundin' out sweet 'n' low, crushin' all comers, and I'm reminded of that one horrid truth 'bout me I never like folks to know.

But no matter of it. M'dick's hard, an that means its time to fuck these Loaders right in their gun barrels.

Angina is _big_. Angina is _strong_. Angina-best as I can tell-is a six barrelled sniper's dream, loaded with rockets that slink out from the chamber in a chain like dragon's tail.

_She's in heat,_ is what I tell myself as I sight up, get it on. _Means I gotta treat her nice_.

And like every cat in heat, when she goes off . . .

"_Whoo-eee!"_

I pulled. I musta. Miss Ellie's screamin' happy an' there's a hole in the desertscape where before there was only robots.

"You _see_ that? Confirmation of every danged thing I ever believed in." Explosion, shrapnel or goddamned _fear's_ blown the back end off a big ol' HOT Loader. Looks like it's shitting fire as it crawls tryin' to escape, only fer Miss Ellie to pound it flat. "Sure, Momma's good at procurin' the raw fixin's for weaponry, but you trust in Ellie to make the best of what she got. _Lean Cuisine?_ Here's what I think of yer goddamned lean cuisine. Line up another shot, D.P. Show these exercise machines how a big girl gets down."

Put it like that, how kin I refuse? I stroke Angina's trigger an' she shivers. I feel it, the w33d translatin' her electrical charges-an' what, pray tell, is basic human sensation if it ain't a buncha nerves sparkin' in yer skin? What's anything mean if ain't a buncha synapses exsploidin' in yer brain?

She goes off again. Slightly fewer casualties this time, without debris it's hard to tell. She ruptured Pandora's crust an' any remainin' traces of the Loaders fell into the breach.

As always, victory's a thrill. Still, there's a naggin' sense there's somethin' else happenin' out there: more rain, brighter stars so large they eclipse the sky . . . but then there's all this private stuff 'tween me an' Angina here, an' if Donna ain't jealous and Miss Ellie likes to watch, who am I to judge?

Double _thump,_ double _splat,_ another victory whoop in the night. We're layin' waste to the enemy. We're stickin' it to Handsome Jack. I mean, maybe it's the w33d again, but I'm havin' a moment of startlin' clarity here: _this is what it's like to be a Vault Hunter._ No one to be beholden to. No consequences, no regrets.

This is how the Hunter who took my no-good Pappy away musta felt. This is how it feels to be God.

Smart guys say every act of destruction can be met with an equal and opposite act of creation. I'm so hopped up on w33d an' sexual thrills, I don't even notice one of them robotic motherfuckers givin' birth 'til it's too late.

Ellie yells: "Constructor!"

"Huh?"

Were it just the one, I'd blast it back to the moon. Slow realisation that beyond the heat of passion each of them real dazzlin' stars was another Constructor. We were surrounded by 'em an' shit, I didn't even notice.

"Get yer head in the game, D.P.!"

"Don't fret!" I yell-try to, anyway. Get it up, D.P. Get it hard an' let 'er rip.

But the Constructors brought some friends to ruin the party. Surveyers-like, little flyin' assholes-swarm, boostin' shields 'round the Constructors as they digistruct more troops. Too swift fer Angina or Ellie's piledriver to take down, I shoot anyway, only to have my _cumshot of mass devastation_ swallowed by the nearest Constructor's forcefield.

Loaders spring into view, summoned from the ether by the Constructor's digistruct rays. Their waning army triples in size.

An' then they come fer us.

The surveyors that take us down. Electrical fields short the piledriver's shields 'round its cockpit. Ellie's jaw drops. She hammers the controls, to no avail. Shields are gone. Protection's gone.

Soon we'll be gone, more or less.

"Mayday!" she screams, pullin' an old-style Echo handset outta god knows where. "Sanctuary frequencies, this is _Venus,_ y'hear me? Venus in goddamned distress. Hey, you!"

She's kickin' somethin' under the control panel. Looks like another treasure chest, 'specially when it opens, parts foldin' out.

"Claptrap, you no good, useless pile of-bail out! We're goin' down! You too, D.P."

_But my leg,_ I wanna say. Claptrap's up on his wheel now, dings all over his carapace, wavin' his arms, skitterin' back 'n' forth in manner that wholly adds to the panic of the situation. When Ellie smacks him with a wrench he spins 360 degrees, straightens up, jumps a step down an' grabs hold of Angina.

'Tween Claptrap and Ellie standin' there ain't much room left in the cockpit. Steps lead down from the driver seat to the outer part of the cage where I'm still tryin' to hold onto Ellie's gun. The engine roars, the whole platform vibratin' as it ticks over. Thick smoke clouds out the stars 'n' whatever else is up there, 'n' sparks like lightnin' strike as bullets ricochet off Claptrap's frame. "Ow," he says. "Owowowow_owowow." _once more jerkin' the weapon from my hands.

"Oh fer Pete's sake," says Ellie. "Just let the bot have it!"

"He fell on my leg," I croak. "Goddamn liability."

"Then let D.P. have it, y'piece of junk. Both of you're blockin' my emergency egress!"

But Claptrap holds fast. "I could've been a contender," he says. "I could've been a Vault Hunter, blasting Skags on the range. I've seen things you people wouldn't believe, but does Claptrap ever get to be a hero? Does Claptrap ever get to save the day?"

W33d sense is goin' haywire. Feels awful familiar, too, 'specially when I pull the gun back an' fer a second Claptrap's eye's up real close.

If I didn't know better-an' if he had the goddanged apparatus-I'd swear that robot was bein' driven by one hell of an erection.

He pulls back, one last time. Corner of my eye I see one o' the Constructors makin' somethin' I ain't seen before, some new kinda Loader, but then an RPG detonates on the far side of the Piledriver an' the whole thing _tilts._

Ellie knocks Claptrap over as she falls through the open door. I'm still inside the cage, got my good leg all twisted behind the chainlink fence Ellie wrapped round the cockpit herself. The Piledriver teeters, its pilot gone, then _thoomps_ back down on the desert floor with a sound like God closin' the story of the entire human race. Dust rises in a curtain all about us. Only things I can see are blinking sensors an' muzzle flashes. It's a tornado out there, and I'm in the eye of the storm.

Engine idles, wheezin'. M'hearin's been blown by the Piledriver fallin' back on its treads; everythin's murky, muted, unclear. Can't hear m'own voice as I call out fer Ellie.

An' then, with a whizzin' noise I feel rather than hear, Angina's yanked from my hands by somethin' that _ain't_ Claptrap.

A pair of clamps long as cars rise from the dustcloud like a coupla icebergs. They crush Angina easy as the piledriver squashed Loaders, then throw away her bent remains. Far be it from me to get sentimental over some gal I just met, but it's the carelessness of it that disturbs me, the showmanship of the catch followed by immediate distaste like this new kinda loader was wipin' dookie from its fingers.

It leans in close, its eye glowin' blue, and its legs like giant moonshine stills shift so it can get a better look. One arm ends in pincers, th'other in some giant glowin' pod like a lantern lighting the way.

But that ain't a lantern, no sir. That's some kind of suspended animation cage.

Limned in the dust cloud, blue lasers poke out in all directions. A couple shoot skyward; the thing hoots an' that barely-glimpsed monstrosity overhead, that goddamned _space ship_ replies in kind.

The other lasers close in, fixin' on me with malicious intent.

Can't hear Ellie, if she's still alive somewhere in the storm. Can't hear Claptrap neither. Can only hear the roarin', monstrous behemoth above, an' my bones, shakin'.

But the w33d, the _w33d_ hears the lasers, hears 'em chatter, hears 'em confer, confirm an' lock on.

That's what sets me movin', draggin' my smushed up leg, wishin' I could tear it off an' leave it behind. Dust cloud looks so soft, can't imagine it'd hurt were I to jump. Wouldn't be like Momma's hand, or Pappy with that steel rod left over from construction of his farm. Wouldn't be no rivet-holes in it makin' it land harder while swishin' in the air when it falls. I'll just tumble, I reckon, land soft as a feather.

With mighty force and fear spurrin' me on, I jump,

An' you know what?

It don't feel like I land at all.


	9. Chapter 9: Orbital Delivery Zone

**9. **

**Orbital Delivery Zone.**

They took my leg. First thing noticed when I wake up. Wasn't much left to take I reckon, but that leg, I was sorta attached to it.

_Attached_. That's a joke, son.

They also took Donna, my supply, my goddamned top hat. Took Claptrap too, close as I kin tell. Hear him wailin' to hisself, just flat out bawlin' all the way down the corridor, locked in some other cell. Worse than Junior, ask me. Go between feeling sorry for the poor guy and wantin' to throttle his circuits, just like I alternate 'tween not quite feelin' awake an' not quite bein' asleep. Before this, you told me there was some kinda narcotic made you feel like smashed up shit, I'd've questioned whether or not yer pants was ablaze. I mean, who the heck'd get high on that?

Can't tell whether or not they got Miss Ellie. Don't hear her-could be a good sign, could be it ain't. All I knows for sure is they got the robot and they got me_,_ an' neither one of us is gonna be escapin' any time soon.

Gotta crown with lights in on my head, nestled in m'hair. Lights come on, world gets . . . _swimmy._ Ain't no rush to it. Worst kind of drug.

Doctors crowd, half round me, half round the screen, lookin' worried over their face masks, talkin' all multisyllabic.

'Fore they leave one turns a dial, and I swim, swim, swim . . .

In scant moments of lucidity I pick over what happened. Loader didn't so much kill as capture me. Flash of its designation stenciled on its chestplate, seen just before I blanked out: CSR. Caesar? Seized me, anyway. Lasers picked me up, threw me into the chamber on its arm. Next thing I know, I wake up here.

They don't feed me none. Got a tube in m'arm 'n' another in m'asshole. Eat out of one bag, crap into another. Some days-if days pass; hard to tell without windows-I get to wonderin' if it ain't the same goddamned bag.

Like everything else, it's hard to tell in here.

Bar for Claptrap yellin'-an' even that comes 'n' goes, like they can't work out how to shut him down fer good-it's real quiet. _Pip pip pip_ goes the monitor, an' _shha shha_ goes the vent, an' the doctors wear drawstring bags over their shoes an' speak in quiet tones, and then the drugs kick in and I swim, swim, swim . . .

Dark things swim with me. I try to complain when the doctors put me under, but they ain't listenin'. Whatever's on that screen's more interesting than anything I have to say. When they examine me, they never look into my eyes. Odd occasion I talk, whatever I say-curse words, questions, pleas, whatever-they don't react. Closest thing I got to a reaction was when they was cuttin' off my clothes. Woman with the laser scalpel's removin' my jorts, cool-as-mojitos demeanour turning to a grimace even though she got gloves on. "Got a monster," I try to say. "In my y-fronts. Real humongous."

She don't say a word, but when the final layer peels off I swear there's mirth in the arch of her eyebrows. Feel the sterile air on m'penis as she turns to another doctor. Just as everything goes swimmy again she holds up finger 'n' thumb just far enough apart to let a grape slip through.

An' then it's in my proverbial tank: the first 'n' largest of the dark things. Like the others it wears a cardboard mask that for some reason don't get damp. First time I see it's when the doctor's makin' fun of my wiener. Try to swim away but it follows. Try to swim toward and it hangs back. More will come as time passes, but this is the largest and this is the worst.

This is the one they're lookin' for. The one that wants to be found.

"Your name. State your name."

Woozy. Tired. Guy sounds how I always 'magined a teacher would.

"Go 'way, teacher. Not . . . not time for school."

"Adjust his dose, Doctor Q. 0.3mg should do it."

Doctor Q steps to. Might be the woman who laughed at my dick; hard to tell, masks 'n' all.

"The subject should be more responsive within the minute."

"He'd better be. Hey, bandit. Can you hear me?"

"Not . . . not time fer school, Mr. Morris. Just gimme five . . . more . . . "

But Mr. Morris weren't no teacher, he was my neighbour who liked to play at bein' naughty when Pappy wasn't around. Momma shuttin' the door, scowlin' somethin' fierce. _Run along with your little friend, D.P.-an' don't neither of you breathe a word to your father. You know what happens when you're disobedient._

_Please miss, _says Mr. Morris, sat on Momma's bed in shorts 'n' school tie. _I want to know._

"Pupils dilating, we're getting _some _positive reaction. Up the dose again, this time 0.4. Steady . . . steady . . . All right, let's try this again: state your _name_."

"B-Benet. D.P. Benet."

"We have him. Good. And these initials, what do they stand for?"

Through the drugs, the memories, the _swim swim swim, _I tell him.

"Are you _serious?"_

"Y. . . yessir."

Shakes his head. His mask is startin' to look like it has a mouth of its own: a big ol' yapper, open wide like it's always screamin'.

"God, what evil must I have committed in a former life to be stationed here, interrogating inbred morons like this one? This is-and believe me, given my career history I don't say such things lightly-the _worst_ duty I've ever had. My old college roommate Peter "Party" Madigan was assigned for interrogatory duty on Stella 5 in the Sigma Axis system. Doctor Q, do you know what they call Stella 5? It's known as 'the beer planet.' Uh, we're not still recording, are we?"

"Yes sir Doctor Hinge, we are."

"Then erase, Doctor Q! Erase the whole record and start again from the beginning. Let's get this preliminary over and done with quickly, before _she _gets here. Ready? Good. Now, you, the miserable pile of witlessness on the bed: for the record, and without resorting to initials, state your _full _name."

"D . . .Double Penetration Benet."

"It's even worse hearing it the second time around. And your age?"

"Twenty-two cycles, I guess."

"You _guess?"_

"Hard to . . . keep track without birthday p-parties. Nobody throws me those no . . . no more."

"Birthday parties, good grief. Doctor Q, could you please insert into the log Mr. Benet's current stats, vitals, best estimation of his meager I.Q. Can't be too high. If you said 'severe retardation' that would be doing him a favour. Mr. Benet, what is your-I hesitate to say it-occupation? That means 'job', or possibly in your case, 'hobby.."

"I take bounties. Shoot folks fer money. Grow w33d."

"Weed? Oh, _narcotics_. It figures. And how long, approximately, have you been doing this for?"

"Since just 'fore my Pappy died, God rest his soul."

"Which was how many Earth standard cycles ago?"

"Three or four. Maybe five."

"Note: patient doesn't have a firm grasp of the passage of time, possibly down to the aforementioned retardation. And what of your mother, Mr. Benet? What do you remember of her?"

"Ain't dead that I know of. She . . . left."

"Any particular reason why? Though I can't say I blame her."

"Just had enough, I s'pose. Pandora gets to you like that."

"From the mouths of babes and idiots. What level of parity do we have, Doctor Q? Are the toxins in Mr. Benet's magnetosensory cortex still playing havoc with our readings?"

"To a small degree. Parity between the Actual Intelligence interface and the patient's own electroencephalographic readings is remarkably high, though a certain amount of instability is to be expected. Once the process has begun we'll be working within a tight window of nuanced parameters. Should fluctuations occur-"

"That's enough. Put me through to Veden; he's Jack's flunkie, he can take the flack if anything go wrong. And now that Mr. Benet's been prepped, put this miserable fleck of-for want of a better term-_humanity_ under again. It's bad enough dealing with _her _once she's been summoned; I won't put up with both of them at once."

"Yes Doctor Hinge."

"Hey," I say, thick in my throat. "You folks took my leg, I want some answers!"

Too late. White, glistenin' an' pristine as the room is, as the lady doctor turns the dial everything fills with dark water again, an' the things in masks come swimmin' on in.

I can tell when they're done with me. That's about the time I end up in the cell.

_Sluggish _is the word I'd use for my condition. Ain't movin' too fast in no particular direction, leaking fluids all over the nice clean floor. They accumulate over time-time I can't tell with no watch, clock, nor ECHO device, not even a damned rakkeral crowin' in the dawn. Still, time passes regardless 'n' my cot, thin as whiskers, gets soaked with pus an' worse. Floor gets slippery so my fingers slides right across it when I'm tryin' to find purchase.

I try my hand at crawlin', see. When the dark water recedes just long enough to wonder where in Hell's name they dumped me.

But it never works, not my arms nor my leg, an' even though they take back the crown an' remove the pipes from my butt it's still so hard to think. _Miasma_ is a word I heard once, goes as well to explaining the state of my mind as any. Even when the black tide's low, the world's still a fog to me, so dense and so dark ain't nothin' but pain gets through to me.

In the end it's the cryin' that does it. Can't walk fer obvious reasons, can't think too good neither, but the cryin' I hear clear as _Cristal._ Knowin' someone else in here's sufferin' just as much as helps me focus, get a grip.

"_Claptrap?"_

From down the corridor: "It _hurts_. It _hurts_. Take it away. Give it back."

My raised voice is just as unsteady as you'd expect a one-legged man's to be. "Hey, Claptrap! Talk to me, son. Y'ain't alone no more."

But the cryin' goes on and on, ever more annoying. Can't stick self pity, but I try to contain myself, cut him a break. Tell myself he's been through a bad time, gettin' kidnapped by masked doctors. Tell myself it has to be hard bein' cooped up in a prison cell, gettin' fed through tube, havin' ladies laugh at your wang.

Aw, hell. Man can only endure so much.

"_You crushed m'leg, y'sumbitch! Y'crushed it bad, an' when I get holda you I'll make tinkertoys of yer private parts!"_

All of which gets his attention.

"Master D.P.? I thought you'd been deconstructed to your constituent skin flakes, by now, not leaving nothing but donor organs and body odour. Although now I come to think of it, my scent receptors _are _picking up an extremely strong _peee-yooo_, which, now we're once more united in verbal contact and proximity, I'd guess _has_ to be emitting from your-"

"Oh, stow it up yer ass." I choke fer a bit, drownin' out his drivel. Dragged myself through my own filth so's I could yell at him through the forcefield seperatin' cell from corridor. Ain't a thing that'll do yer lungs good. "Now lissen to me you metal dumbass: who did this to us? Who _took_ us?"

"Why, the Hyperion Acquisitional Armed Forces, of course! Don't know if you'd noticed but Loaders _are_ sort of their calling card."

Hate to admit it but he's right. Guess they finally got tired of wastin' human troops on yours truly and decided to bring out the big guns.

"Don't suppose you got any inklin' as to our present whereabouts?"

"Well that's what I was _sobbing _about before you so cruelly interrupted me with your threats and bad language. I mean, my God, is there a mother in your immediate evolutionary path whom you kiss with that mouth? It _hurts._"

With his manner so disagreeable I want to give him somethin' to hurt about, but it takes a slightly kinder approach to coax out the truth.

"It's my _thingie_." His voice echoes, bouncin' off the cells on the opposite wall. "The protrusion from my uppermost rear section that allowed me to pirate pornography and precisely pinpoint my position from anywhere on Pandora _in addition _to keeping me in constant ECHO communication with my nearest and dearest. Which it would, if I had any."

"You mean your aerial?"

He sniffs. "Sure, if you're going to be so _crude_ about it. Honestly mister, someone needs to

wash your mouth out with soap and/or water."

Now contrary to what certain snooty folks back in Sanctuary'd have you to believe, I never did have much of a criminal record. Actually undertaking criminal activity, that's a different matter, but Pappy always said what doesn't arrest then charge you in front of a court of law makes you stronger. I never did time for the w33d farming, the finaglin' of young ladies' undergarments, or the unbroken an' well-paying chain of violence an' murder which constitutes the best part of my career. Only ever got in trouble with the law over a few drunken bar brawls, for which I spent a few nights coolin' my heels in the Last Chance lock-up. Oh, an' that business with Patricia Tanner which, now I think of it, is probably best forgotten.

Thing is, I never had much need to escape from jail, so I don't have the first clue as to how this forcefield works. It's orange an' it feels like the skin butterscotch pudding gets when it gets cold, an' no amount of pushing with fingers slick with my own vital juices penetrates it. Little lightnin' strikes flicker through it when I press real hard. Kinda tingles.

"_It hurts," _Claptrap moans again. Take it away. Give it back."

Residual drug effects. Pain. Hard t' think at all. Not to mention, thinkin' was never my strong point. Was always best with reflexes an' muscle memory-I test my trigger finger out, just wavin' it in the air. Seems to work. No gun though, nothin' I could use to shoot the control panel that's surely on the opposite side of this door. Even then, what the hell kind of bore ammunition would I need to penetrate these dense layers of plasteel? I mean, electrical ammo might do the job, or explosives.

'S all moot, though. No gun, no bullets. Just m'finger, wavin' hello.

Floor's digistructed in a single thick sheet with no holes. Can't crack it with my bare hands; can't pull loose any part of the cot to thwack it with. Wouldn't be able see if I was makin' a dent anyways; lab outside might be pristine 'n' bright but in here it's dank, jus' the darkest mess of a place.

Makes me wonder if them slippy, slidy juices seepin' out my leg stump ain't the only gore linin' this highly-technical drunk tank. Who else has been incarcerated here over the years? Who else has been experimented upon?

That's when I hear the whispers. Over Claptrap's whinin'-through it, even-the whispers of those who haunted the cell before me, who had their life choked out in a series of incidents each more intrusive than the last, scientists poking, prodding and dissecting 'til all that's left is anguish 'n' torment.

It comes to me in a tsunami that bowls me off my knees and facedown into the gore.

An' _that, _good friends, is about the time I pass the hell out.

What scares me most is losing track of the number of times the room fills with swimmin' things. The black tide rising and falling is the only way I can count time marching on.

But usually there ain't no real rise or fall to it; mostly it's like the tide's gone half way out an' they're down in the shallows nibblin' on my toes, a constant presence in my life.

Comes to the point where I recognise the masks, featureless as they is. No eyes, no nose, no mouth; not cardboard-I was wrong about that-but _papier mache_, the chewed up kind kids used to make sculptures from. For me, arts and crafts meant staplin' roadkill one to another, an' if we was was feelin' particularly rambunctious Breeg 'n' me would glue the whole macabre affair to sticks, to enact what they call a _shadow play. _Didn't think Mr. D.P. here was so cultured, did you? Breeg'd set up a flashlight an' out in the widebeam we'd put on puppet shows fer the other kids. Used to be good times of an evenin', bothered by mosquitos and suckin' on rock candy.

I'm scared of whatever hand or claw holds the sticks for these papier mache puppets. I'm scared they're just distractions, same as Breeg'd sometimes have me pinch credits an' other treasures from our captive audience. What might be swimming behind me as I'm watchin' the masked fish, I wonder. What might they be takin' from D.P. as the masks grin and swim closer.

I wake in the cell, so delirious even a strollin' preacher'd call me _fucked the hell up._ Puke over the edge of the cot, though my guts don't harbour nothin' but lime green juice. It's gettin' pretty swampy down there, I reckon. Looks like Crabclaw, lost souls an' all.

Claptrap's still squalling, which is a much nicer constant than hearing the things whisper as they do. Still no idea how much time's passed. Claptrap told me his time circuit's fried-not by dint of his bein' locked away, he says, but just 'cause he forgot to wind it.

"_Wind _it?" says I, wipin' puke from my mouth.

"Hey," he says. "Human beings are born with appendixes yet you don't hear _me_ criticising your useless, out-of-date organs. _I_ happen to proudly retain my hand-wound inner workings _including but not limited to _my timing mechanism. In an age of greater wonder, humans might have considered self-winding clockwork to be _terribly terribly impressive. _Uh, perpetual motion machines? Ever heard of them?"

Like I could give a crap. I'm too bogged down in recent history, still taking its toll on my fragile form. The constant experimentation was bad; the interrogation was worse. They still come, from time to time. I don't so much remember it as _feel_ it later. Always that same Doctor Hinge, whose halitosis can't be contained by his surgical mask, and the woman, Doctor Q, who God help me keeps lookin' prettier 'n' prettier even though she insulted my dang junk. In my dreams-which may well be memories-her eyes grow real slutty. Like, eyeshadow 'n' blusher creepin' over the top of her mask. Eyelashes grow like vines, makin' her look more 'n' more sultry 'til her eyes plain pop outta their sockets 'n' crawl across her cheeks. They make their way down her body an' up the column supporting the bed, where they dance like strippers on my gonads, singin' sexy 'bout my penis. _It's huge, _I tell 'em. _It'scocksign the likes of which even God has never seen_.

But it's too late; it's just a bad memory an' I'm real fucked in the head.

Only things I truly remember are the two questions they keep asking. Sometimes I answer. Sometimes I answer truthfully, though the truths shift like quicksand.

But it's always the same couple questions before the black tide rises:

_Who are you?_

and

_Where is she?_

I'm unseamed by the time they're done. Comes a time-don't ask how long-when they just stop callin' me out. Those are the darkest hours, when the tide rises without rhyme nor reason, when Claptrap's sobs and the echoing whispers mingle. The whispers come from behind the masks of the dark swimmers, an' no matter how far I crawl, the walls of my cell never seem to get closer. Sometimes I even see her in the dark: Maggie May, devoid of baby, comin' forth to carry me home. Sometimes her eyes is the same as the slut-bugs wiggling high on Doctor Q's cheeks. Sometimes her voice is like home, bribin' me with fried headcheese and as many pancakes as I can barf back up.

An' sometimes-an' at these times the waters fill my nostrils to drowning-I forget my own damned name. There's another name below the dark tide, another two initials I could claim as my own. Lord knows it'd be easy just to take 'em. I'd slot 'em in, easy as pie, right into the spaces where my eyes used to be.

An' then the tide recedes and I'm back to bein' D.P. Two eyes. Two trigger fingers. One leg.

It's at this time, with the tide low and the beach dry, that I _really_ listen to the whispers. They vary as they bounce 'round my cell. Sometimes its voices. Sometimes it's singin'. Sometimes it's just hummin', the way empty space 'tween Fast Travel pylons hums and it's this that helps me get a hold on my location, a _fix,_ if you'll excuse the pun.

It's the w33d, see, winnin' it's own war against drugs. When the dope they give me fades my own supply shines' through.

Can't toke none, nor even chew it like baccy. Like the rest of my belongings my pouch is long gone.

But the ghosts of all the blunts I smoked in the past few years linger, and it's a pleasant haunting, so it is.

I hear it humming in the wires: electrical signals from guns, Loaders-hell, even Claptrap. Always did have an affinity with robots, though it's not like I could command firearms to shoot and robots to rise up. Rather, it's like the postcard on poor Crazy Eddy's car, like they're sendin' me messages as to how they're doing. Doubt that even Claptrap knows he's doin' it, but I can feel his misery sure as m'own.

Moreover, I can feel _her._ And don't she feel familiar.

Not Maggie May, of course-that'd be far too neat, us practically endin' up as bunkmates. No, she's . . . she . . .

It's difficult to explain. She-I _know_ her. Ain't Maggie, Ellie or my Ma, Tannis, or any other girl I ever knew.

But I _know_ her, though I can't 'zactly put a pin in her location. She's real familiar, like we danced close at a club once but I never got her number, or I bin masturbatin' to her nudies in a clothes catalogue an' her modellin' agency sent me a fake autograph. We got somethin' in common, she 'n' I.

We're lost.

Is that what it is? It's intangible; I know that much. Slips through my grasp time an' time again, even as I struggle to gain lucidity, even as the cell slowly comes into sharp focus, all the slippery guts 'n' nightmare tide drainin' away, even as I realise whatever Doctor Q and Doctor Hinge with the bad breath wanted they've already taken, even as I wait for them to take me again but they don't, and I find I'm stuck there, not in a holding cell but in a cell, plain an' simple, locked away for all of time.

Only companion I got's Claptrap, next cell over, moaning at a lower volume now his battry's wearing down.

"_It hurts. Take it away. Give it back."_

Been goin' on so long ain't nothin' but a soundtrack. Just the same few bars repeatin': _Take it away. Give it back_.

It'd be enough to drive a lesser man schizo.

But-an' excuse my indignant pomposity here; it' been a while since this good ol' boy felt anything but fear 'n' confused sexy feelin's-_I ain't no lesser man._

It comes to me slowly. Don't no how many days it takes. Could be weeks, even months, far as I can tell.

They kept me in a cage, see. They kept me an' drugged me an' mocked the shit outta my pecker. They drowned me in a tank with things swimmin' in the dark, an' they wired my nuts to a machine that read my mind.

They took my w33d. They killed my dolls. They burned my house. They stole my gun.

(an' sure, wanna get technical about it, Maggie May was the one responsible for that. But she ain't here an' excuse me fer dispensin' my righteous fury at misaligned targets. While you're pointing out plotholes I'm spoolin' up to make a point, and that point, if you please, is this:)

For all the transgressions they've committed against me, for all the hardships and tortures I've endured-an' not for want of trying mind, 'cause you better believe they tried their hardest-never once did they puncture my mind.

_Proper folks. Remember that._

Sure Pappy, just as I remember everything else y'ever taught me.

Not least of which was how to recognise a disturbance in a w33d high, the electrical signal that ought not be there. Whole purpose of cross-breedin' the crop, as I recall. Filter out those bio-signals, get the electrical one nice an' toasted. Ya make do with what you got, right Pappy? Just as _proper folk_ make do with the shit sandwich Pandora served 'em.

Don't ask how long I been in my cell since the Doctors stopped callin'. Don't think about whether or not me an' my prison buddy have been left here to rot.

"Claptrap," I call, voice scratchy with disuse. Been a long time since I cared to say hello, just as it's been a long damned time since anyone last recharged him. "If I ask you a personal question, will you give me a straight answer?"

"I . . . thought . . . you'd . . . expired."

"Well I ain't. Neither've you, far as I can tell."

No answer, but I _feel_ him, just as I feel _it_, the thing's got me so damned hopeful I'm fair crapping myself in excitement.

"Listen," I says. "I want you to scour your memory banks. Think back to the last time we met."

"You want me . . . to purge . . . my RAM?"

"Other kinda scour, y'eedjit! Search it-_search!"_

The masked things watch and wait for their chance, but I _feel_ it.

Hope. Explosive, glorious hope.

"Memory located. I wanted to kill you. Steal . . . steal your doll."

"Go back further. Back to Sanctuary."

Another pause, long as my rod.

"Memory found. Master Salvador has crammed . . . military ordnance up my private buttock region."

An' here comes the gamble, here comes the wager all our freedom rests upon.

"Think carefully, Claptrap. _How many grenades did Salvador jam up your butt?"_

I got an affinity with robots sure, but I ain't no janitor.

And as my hareem o' dolls woulda testified 'fore they was burned to shrivelled bits, I sure as hell ain't no mechanic.

"Two," say Claptrap, with a pained, discomfited sigh. "As I recall you removed one . . . but the other still stuck up there. It . . . hurts. Take it out."

Now, hope's rare'n a dexiduodinous drifter, but dang it if she ain't a gracious beast when she rears her head.

"No can do, partner," I say, already crawlin' to the door with my one leg behind me. "But I kin help you remove it yerself, if yer willin' to listen."

His answer is faint and buzzes like a wound down radio.

But that he answers at all means he's listenin'.

"Good. First, yer gonna have to open your southern posterior hemispheric flanges _real wide,_ an' if you've still got any axel grease about yer person, I were you I'd start lubin' yer manipulators liberally, 'cause the next step-Claptrap, you still with me?"

"Yes . . . Master . . . D.P . . ."

"That's fantastic, 'cause the next step, you're gonna be _real glad_ your fingers are slippery as hell. Ready? Here's what we're gonna do . . ."


	10. Chapter 10: Executing Phase Shift

**10. **

**Executing Phase Shift.**

So, cut a long story short, Claptrap craps a grenade out his a-hole and we run for our lives.

Not detailed enough? Y'all would rather see how your newly maimed cripple boy 'n' his wacky robot pal escaped incarceration, like my life was one of your daytime stories?

Well then. Here it goes.

He craps out the grenade, yes he does. Makes more fuss than a chicken laying an egg twice the size of an asteroid.

"_It hurts."_ He cries, but he's been crying for so long if there're any guards on hand they don't pay no attention. "It's caught in my gearbox, Master D.P. I can't remove it, I can't . . ."

"Yer gonna have to get your hand way up there, buddy."

"Up my _butt?"_

"D'you wanna rust to obsoletion in this place? _Git 'er up!"_

I can practically see him-though Lord, I wish I couldn't. Them sounds he makes, them creaks and shrieks and, oh God, the sound of his surprise as this or that manipulator touches something that ain't never been tickled.

I'll say this much 'bout the Vault Hunter who did this to him: dude has _reach_.

But it's comin'. Claptrap yells more and more fretful, 'til at the very end, climaxin', there's a _pop_ resounds 'round the prison block when finally he shits himself clean.

"Oh," he says-an' if robots could sweat you'd better believe he'd be clammy with' relief. "It's beautiful, D.P. A beautiful baby grenade."

"Pick it up-careful, like!"

"He's beautiful," he says again. "Looks just like me, but for the safety pin. How're you doing, little fella? Daddy's _so glad_ to get rid of you."

I dictate his actions through the cell wall as he coos over his newborn. Get him to put his bouncing baby bomb in the corner of the wall joinin' us, right where the back of the forcefield's controls ought to be. Course, there's always the possibility they're on the right-hand side 'stead of the left.

But when I close my eyes, through the dull red pain in my severed leg I feel it: a sparkling cloud of wires and bits that're all that stands between us and freedom. The controls are there, all right. They just ain't gonna be there for long.

"Grenade primed?"

"It sure is."

"You ready to blow shit up?"

"No," he says, sighing all dramatic like. "But you have to let go at some point, don't you? God, they grow up _so fast._"

Now, the dark waters of my mind ain't receded for good, so when the grenade detonates my thoughts ain't crystal clear, nor can I maneuver myself entirely out of the blast radius. A good part of the wall vaporises in a shower of swamp green fury. We're talking corrosive damage here, wires, cables and pipes exposed, sparks flying and green stuff dripping from the ceiling, smoldering rain and frayed ends of rebar poking from the wall like bent, charred bones. I got mortar dust in my hair and skin, all kinds of nasty sooty shit stinging my eyes and penny-sized holes across my much diminished lower sector, which smoke before they hurt like my adrenal system's sluggish and can't be bothered no more.

Floor's covered in shards of metal so hot they glow, and here comes Claptrap risin' cautious through the hole. His iris aperture contracts and expands-he's blinking, I realise, like he's been locked in darkness for months-an' as he hooks his manipulators under my armpits and yanks me choking out into the corridor, not for the first time I realise: maybe it _has_ been months. Claptrap's advanced tech, put into production a good long time after even the most recent of my dolls. If his batteries are running down then maybe we've been locked away for . . .

Best not to think about it. The world spins an' my ears're ring, and if recent events have treated the extremities of my limbs so poorly what the hell have they done to my ears, my eyes, my essential internal organs?

Best not to think at all. Best to swim with the tide, and wake only briefly to see how far Claptrap's dragged me, how far from imprisonment we've come.

"Cl-Claptrap?"

No sound. Not at first. Just a cold strap of metal holding my lips together, and footsteps.

Lots and lots of footsteps.

When they pass, the strap relaxes. Takes a second to focus and see it ain't a strap at all, but a hand, or some semblance thereof.

A hand that's shaking. A trembling robot hand.

"Where are we, Claptrap?"

"We're _screwed,_ Master D.P. That's where we are"

Call in the prison complex labyrinthine. Call the laboratories a maze. For all his nervous nature-and sure, his hellaciously egregious personality matrix-way he tells it, Claptrap dragged us out of harm, chose corridors less travelled, avoided patrols alerted by the sirens done set off soon as he detonated his ass grenade, and through luck and the grace of a higher power we've ended up behind enemy lines in the only place'd be empty during a wholesale state of emergency.

We're under a long-ass dining table in the Hyperion grunt's messhall, which was until five minutes ago a safe place to hide.

Five minutes ago the alert was called off.

"They think we escaped," says Claptrap, jittering so hard his joints rattle. "They relayed it over the com system. Airborne units are being scrambled to seek and destroy, while the on-base engineer _jarheads_ have been recalled to former duties. Might be sooner, might be later, but at some point in the next few minutes they'll be coming back here, and when they do, they'll find us. You can only fit so many screws into their mess hall before one drops his fork and crouches down here looking for it."

"_Airborne? _Is this place, like, in the sky or some such?"

"I don't _know!_ I mean, I guess it must be. God, what are we going to _do?"_

If I had a gun I'd know exactly what I'd do, but this ain't the time or place for such regrets.

"There's gotta be some way out or some ECHO link on which to call fer help. How confident you feel 'bout takin' one o' these guards down on your own?"

"On my _own?"_ he says. "I think the lack of oxygen to your head caused by your stump bleeding out is starting to interfere with your delicate human brain."

Stump ain't so much bleedin' as suppurating yellow matter, but that don't mean the 'bot ain't right.

"Okay, then let's plan an alternate course of action. First thing: work out exactly where in tarnation we are?"

"I _told_ you: we're in their mess hall. It's full of delicious provisions; I thought we could have a picnic, or maybe find some snacks to take with us."

His voice has a shrill jitterin' edge. I was a dummy to even suggest he take on one of these military boys; right now Claptrap's of no use to nobody.

Focus, D.P. It's down to you now. Get your bearings, then get gone.

For the first time since waking I get to examining our surroundings. Try sitting, bump my head on the bench. Gonna take a second to recover, crawl out, work out if there's anything here gives us an advantage. 'Til then, guess I'll see what I can see from my worm's eye view.

Benches, but no tables. The walls have rows and columns of dear little doors. There's, like sheets or something on the floor. Look almost like towels. If this is where the guards chow down it's the dangest darn dinner hall I ever clapped eyes on.

And then it hits me. I only have Claptrap's word for where we are.

"Claptrap, are these _changin' rooms?_"

"No," he says. "This is a _mess hall,_ see? It must be, because it's absolutely brimming with delumptious, delectable nutrients."

He points to a charging cable running from his chest to a power outlet on the wall, behind which appears to be a decent set of showers.

Blood loss _must _be affecting me. Somehow I managed to forget that Claptrap's a complete moron.

He hauls me around by my armpits, complaining about my weight and sometimes throwing both of us behind this or that wall as another patrol stomps past. We're pretty well hidden, but the boots the engineers wear echo so much every time they get close fear grips my spinal region.

With only the one leg between us it's slow going, but every passing second threatens discovery, so I explore as fast as I can.

The doors, well, they belong to lockers. Some're open, most aren't. Occasional dog tags, toilet paper, candy wrappers, condoms-litter and knicknacks left behind by guards dressing for their shift. Half a mind to disguise myself, 'cept their off-duty clothes are behind locked doors no amount of pushin' an' shovin' can open, and that's before you get to the problem of my being lacking in the leg department.

All the while time's ticking on. Sure, maybe this is the last place this morons'll check. Soon as shift's over they'll be back to change into their civvies, the next shift will be ready to take over, and we'll be back to square one-or worse.

Risk a look around outside. Ceiling's lower in this part of the corridor network. Possibility of escaping into the vents, were I to get a booster, though Claptrap's not exactly built for strength so it's probably out of the question. Chain link in front what looks like a place to check in, file paperwork. Some kinda secretary's office, I guess, but I can't know for sure. Hell, I'm way outta my depths here. Even standin' on one leg's with a shoulder braced against the wall's a chore. Doing it long enough to get the gist of where we are makes everything turn black.

"Master D.P.! Master D.P.!"

He's there when I wake, stroking my stubble with fingers like nine inch nails. Different room this time. Darker.

Everything's darker.

"You blacked out again. Fell right into the corridor. At great personal risk I had to drag you out of sight."

"We . . . we still in the locker room?"

"I don't know what kind of room this is. Mess hall, probably-I found some feeding stations here as well. If I keep gorging like this I'll be sure to lose my girlish figure."

Room's empty-Claptrap has brains enough not to deposit us somewhere busy-but there ain't lockers, nor showers, and only a single bench way at the back, under what looks like a coat rack. Blank walls 'stead of windows, matte metal, with a few wires trailing from the roof.

The masked things lurk near as I crawl towards the bench. Close up, the coat racks look more like gun racks. Every station's empty; too much to hope there'd be weapons left behind.

Something else catches my attention. Through the doorway opposite the bench is an office, inside which is a computer screen, still on.

"Help me over there, won't?"

"Well, okay. But for a man with only one leg, you're heavy as a whale."

Too damned right it's still on. It's ready to be used, as well.

Up close, his ain't so much an office as it is an alcove. What I thought to be a chair in front of it is, in actual fact, a maintenance hatch too small to fit anything bigger than my fist inside. When prised off the space behind don't go no particular place.

Claptrap reads the words aloud for me. OUTPOST #H0319 HYPERION SUPPLY CHECK-IN says the screen, followed by columns of numbers, requisition codes, and names, surname first, initial last.

There's also a clock in the upper right. Knowing it's 0519 ain't much use.

Without meaning to-without needing to-my w33d sense feels it out. It's much less strong than it used to be, which ain't surprising. God knows when I had my last smoke.

"Can you hack this?"

He says he can, but only so far. Sticks his hand through the gap behind the panel, clamps onto the cables there. Alphanumerics scroll down his eye lens. "The system's rife with nano defenses," he says. "The deep menu's off-limits, unless you want me to become infested with rust-spreading viroids?"

"Surface menu's good enough."

He shows me a map of the security floor showing emergency exits to other levels and a variety of silent alarm triggers, all inactive. No peeking through security cameras, but . . .

"There's a break." I point. "Munitions stored next door, by seems of things. Spaceport's this way, so it says. Must be a delivery site for buildin' materials 'n' other cargo."

"That would mean we're in Opportunity," says Claptrap, brightening. "Why, that isn't too far from where they took us at all. I've had some experience practising civil disobedience there, as a matter of fact. That Jack, always with the statues." He chuckles.

"Long as you can get us gone, that's . . ."

Blackness. _Swim._

"Whoah, Boss, are you all right? I figure I should call you boss now, on account of how you're always ordering me about. Although seeing as I was calling you 'Master' before . . ."

"Look, I'm fine. We . . . we got escape pods here, look. Place might be under lockdown but they ain't gonna ground those suckers anymore than they'll shut off the sprinkler system. Safety . . ." _Swim. _"Safety first."

"Far be it for me to provide diagnoses for squishy fallible human circulatory systems but Boss, I think you might be in shock."

Might be shock. Might be withdrawal. Could be any number o' thangs. Poor D.P.'s pretty banged up.

"They got troops airborne, yuh? We trigger the escape pods, make 'em think we're on the run. Guards come running, see what's the matter. Then, with attention turned the other way, we skit out the front door. Only, you're gonna have to do the launchin', understand? I can't . . ."

Note of sadness enters his tonal matrix. "Boss, I understand _completely._ Heck, I'm all kinds of used to people using me as a distraction by now. 'Claptrap', they say, 'open this door for me, then run around amidst a death-cloud of gunfire while we sneak in undetected.'"

"Folks really says that to you?"

"We-ell, not as such, no. But they're thinking it! Or maybe I just enjoy running around in a hail of bullets. It's invigorating!"

"You gonna trigger those escape pods or do I have to-to the best of my one-legged ability-_fuck you up_?"

"I'm on my way!" he says, before skittering away round the corner on a wheel that's starting to squeak.

Gets about twenty feet away 'fore he stops in his tracks, says "Shiny!", and darts off out of sight.

Map says the turn leads to the complex's lost and found. So much for relying on robots.

Well, Pappy said I had to be proper folk. With a lot of effort I can prop myself on my leg, even hop in a precarious, hellish slow manner. Gotta hug the wall for balance, an' if any guards happen past guess I ain't in much condition to skedaddle. Takes three times as long to make it as far as Claptrap got 'fore getting distracted, at which point I remember once the tubes is launched I can't run to the exit anyways, 'cause sometimes I forget things, an', Lord, my head, it's . . .

_Swim._

It's just . . .

_Swim._

It's just all too much . . .

_Swim._

And 'fore I know it I'm fallin', and no amount of holdin' onto that wall's gonna buoy me up.

_Summer. Honey bees. Pollen. Warm yellow sun with a fat old smile on its face. Perfect time for building sandcastles, picnics, messing about by the river._

That's what the book says, the first picture book in my collection.

We jump off the swing an' we splash, an' we climb back up for another go, again an' again' 'til the rope burns our butts and makes calluses on our hands, an' as the line thins and all the other kids skit it's just me an' Breeg on the hillside, an' the Ezret twins in their pigtails 'n' cut-off overalls, takin' it in turns on the tyre swing, both too chicken to dive.

We watch 'em as sun setta, an' the first nitte-rakk of the evenin' chew bugs from the muggy air. Ain't a whole lot else to gawp at, but we're fine with that.

"Who'd you think's prettier?" I say. "Rita or Lila?"

"Blarggh," says Breeg.

"You reckon? _I _reckon its th'other way round. Momma says Rita's jaw's kinda manly."

"Blarggh."

"Well if that's what you like, that's what you like. Wouldn't do if folks had all the same tastes."

"Blarggh."

"Yup."

"Blarggh."

Breeg's just about the best friend I ever had. Other kids, they don't take to him kindly, but me an' him has an understandin'. When Dade an' his loser pals was all fixin' to push us over the edge, we stood firm, told 'em no. An' when Dade laughed an' kicked us into the canyon anyways, we helped each other climb out 'fore evenin' came.

You gotta know when t'get out of Squits Canyon, an' that's before sundown. Stay too long, it ain't a safe place to play.

Big Donut-that's Breeg's sister-she'd cut Dade's ball-sack off if Breeg ever told her 'bout his behaviour. When he beats the snot outta us an' leaves us chewin' dirt, I sometimes tell him he should.

"Blarggh," says Breeg, which is his roundabout way of describin' the laws by which we as children abide. It wouldn't do to bring a grown-up into the situation. I mean, at thirteen Big Donut ain't exactly Methuselah, but she's all preoccupied with old folks stuff, like modifyin' guns, killin' mercs an' keepin' the midget population down.

So she don't interfere. An' life continues as it ever does.

Breeg squashes a mosquito on his arm. Big mess of blood an' insect parts when he takes his hand off, on a skin already lookin' like someone stuffed it with bread dough.

"Blarggh," he says, scratchin' 'nother bite on the back of his neck. Got his first tribal tattoo back there. Some day every inch of skin where the ink is'll burned black, substitutin' one scar for another. It ain't that he don't already have scars, he says, but that don't mean he don't need more. We both know how sly Breeg's Momma can be applying discipline, just as we both his daddy's as rambunctious as you please. Tats and whuppin's makes you the man you're gonna be, he says, but the scars you get as a grown up show the kind of man you are.

Somethin' along those lines, anyways. Breeg makes it sound real meaningful, way he tells it

_(Swim.)_

Been havin' some funny thoughts this unusually humid eve. Daydreams, I s'pose: adventures in far flung galaxies, heroes chasin' fairy tales in a land where no one ever truly dies.

An' this deathless land, why, it looks so much like my own I gotta blink sometimes, jus' to be sure I ain't asleep.

"Tell ya 'bout visions, Breeg." I says. "Ever have one of those?"

"Blarggh?"

"No, like . . . like the future's tryin' to get you a message." Shake my head. "Guess it's something to do with what happened to Pappy. Psy-cho-logical trauma, done fudged up my brain parts. They say it was a young guy that done it, older 'n' me an' you, an' Big Donut too, I guess. Still, young. _Raw talent_, is the word comin' down from the mountain. A real hero. Guess a hero looks different, to different folks, dependin' how you look at it. Think he'll make it? Pappy, I mean."

"Blarggh."

"S'pose you're right. Gotta wait 'n' see, I guess."

With the sun dipping lower 'n' the varkid tunin' up for their evensong, the Ezret twins decide they're goin' home. Breeg waves 'em off; way they look back you'd think they trod in something disagreed with their toes. They skip off back to their windfarm an' then it's just the two of us, hanging out in the roots of the ol' swingin' tree. Long ways below dark monsters be comin' outta their holes to feed on the night. All manner of awfulness lurks in Squits Canyon after dark.

Now the tyre-swing's deserted I stand, stretch m'bare legs. Maybe it's the hope somethin' _now_, somethin' _real_ will chase off those future ghosts. Maybe I was startin' to fall asleep down there, an' need some motion to wake me up., "Hey Breeg, you want to go on the swing?"

"Blarggh!"

"Ain't no cause for alarm, now. 'Course I don't mean to jump off. I just want to swing. Cool air would be nice 'gainst your face, don'tcha think?"

"Blarggh."

"Fair 'nough. Ain't gonna think any less of you for that. But me?" I swing on up. Rope's worn dark where so many kids have held tight. Strands peels back from it, the whole thing's frayin', but the swing's been like that forever and so far it ain't broke. "I'm gettin' on, now. Settlin' down. Push me?"

An' he pushes, and the tyre swings, and when he pushes again I fly out over the chasm where the dark things play an' back. Rope's frayed as it's always been. Branch it's fixed to creaks as it always does. Got the wind in my hair and the world giddy under me. It's easy to forget 'bout what happened to Pappy, an' how Momma'll be waitin' switch in hand when I get home, an' how if Mr. Morris didn't treat her exactly as she wanted it'll go so much worse for my legs. It's easy to forget 'bout all the ills of the word, so long as I close my eyes 'n'-

_(Swim_)

-swing.

An' it _is_ easy, at first, just as it'd be so dang easy just to let go. It's easy an' it's sweet, an I could stay here on the edge of darkness forever.

"Ain't this great?" I yell against the wind. "Ain't this the best?"

I look back at Breeg as he's about to push again.

But he ain't there.

"So," says the woman. "You're the one he chose. The first one."

She says it like her heart holds too much sadness to bear yet she's still smilin', smilin' like it's all she's got left to hold onto.

The swing slows, stops. Don't dare get off. Mightn't be right over the canyon anymore, but if I did feels like I'd fall an' never stop.

"Where'd Breeg go? Who're you?"

She smiles again, sorta. Got funny dark hair, shaved on one side, long on th'other. Hides one of her eyes. "I'm just a . . . lost spirit, seeking a way to end this. Same as you."

"That's like a ghost, ain't it? Well you're wrong, ma'am. I ain't one of those-an' anyway, there ain't no such thing. Not for realsies, anyways."

"Is that so? And how would you explain . . ." She pauses. Somethin' like a hand riffles through my memories. ". . . Crabclaw Swamp?"

"Oh, that's easy. Pappy says the thoughts of robots 'n' proper folk ain't so different. It's all electricity, he says. It's only the hardware it runs through that makes robots robots an' us the folks we is."

Tilts her head back, sizin' me up. "And when did he say that, exactly?"

Takes some concentratin' tryin' to track down the whens an' wheres. Momma's just gotten word 'bout that soldier shootin' Pappy-put her in helluva mood, I kin tell you. Then there's the shuttles still on the horizon, landin' far out on open plains an' takin' off for orbit-though there's precious few arrivals these days. My thoughts're muddy-I forget sometimes-but I'm eleven cycles old, that much I'm sure of, meanin' Pappy . . .

Meaning Pappy don't know squat 'bout cybernetic systems yet. He farms weed, not w33d, an' with folks already departin' Pandora for better places he decided to be a headhunter to make some extra income. Got himself shot, gonna get his limb replaced, but if I'm eleven cycles I don't, _can't_ know bout none of that.

That hand riffles again. Feels like bug tunnelling through dirt, leaving trails. "You're talkin' 'bout things that ain't even happened yet, ain't you?"

The lady with the blue eyes an' dark hair nods real slow.

"We ain't at Squits Canyon, is we?"

"It's hard to explain," she says. "And I don't have much time. They're coming, and after they arrive we won't be able to speak again."

"Who's comin'?"

"Friends I've hurt. Friends I've wronged. They don't understand why I've done what I have, but they will, in time. And when they find out . . ." She gets quiet, wistful even, 'fore shakin' her head. "It doesn't matter. What will be will be. They are on a different path from you, my friend. If I am to make amends, the best I can do is provide you with assistance and hope, when the time comes, that you make the right decision."

"Lady, you're makin' no sense."

"I know, I know. But . . ." She looks about, the sky darkenin', the swing still ridin' the breeze, just swayin' in the smallest of winds, enough to move the black grass growin' stubby 'round the tree roots, an' send bobbin' the firemelons all the way back, threatenin' to explode should the wind pick up. "I've been here before," she says, as if only just rememberin'. "Here and in a thousand other memories. That was his mistake: letting me see a world beyond my own. Through my friends. Through you."

The sky-everything-_swerves_ somehow, like a near miss with an oncomin' hover tank. Soon as it does I ain't so much enjoyin' a fine summer's eve as layin' one-legged in a corridor.

_I'm back,_ I think. But that don't mean the lady ain't gone.

"They're here," she says. "They made it here already and there's so much left to do."

Voices callin'. Distant explosions. Screams. Shaking. The world on fire.

Somethin' sharp, proddin' my ribs. "_Is he dead? Grab him; let Sigma team deal with the intruders."_

"Listen. They need you, D.P. Jack needs you, and so does Roland; he just doesn't know it yet. But most of all Lieutenant McCormick needs you. She's going to strike a deal: the child for what Jack stole from her. But you can't make deals with my father. I've already set plans in motion to stop him from summoning the Warrior but without your help the spirit of his work will continue. Find the _Terminus_. It's under command of a coward named Nakayama. What Nakayama is doing-what he _will _do-doesn't matter. But it is of the utmost importance that you-"

"_He's waking up, sir. Should we-"_

"_Shit, what was that? We're under fire! This is Team Delta, requesting back-up."_

"-do you understand? Stay with me, D.P. On no account must you let it survive."

It's all phasing, one world to the next. One second I'm with her, the next I'm among a bunch of dyin' Hyperion engineers. They're going down in crackling blue, electric bullets jolting their limbs.

Squits Canyon judders. The lady's voice distorts.

"They're going to take you, now. Go with them, but don't _stay_ with them. Don't let anyone kill you. Don't trust the Fast Travel system. Remember what I've told you. And D.P.?"

"_Y-yeah?"_

"Good luck."

It's like wakin' up. All the words I was hearin' in echoes become real voices, real folks speakin' to one another, while her voice, the woman from my dream, fades into the ether as if that's all she ever was.

Confusing as hell at first. Mighta wet myself. Not even in the locker room did I ever put on clothes. Laying naked in a pool of my own piss mixed with the blood of others.

And other voices are coming closer, folks cheering and yelling and high fiving over the number of kills they've made, coming in my direction to see what in God's name's survived.

One reaches me, kicks my remaining leg. His bulk blots out the world, fills my nostrils with garlic breath and rotten meat.

"PENDAJOS!" screams the Vault Hunter. "Hey guys, this is my buddy, the janitor, eh?"

That's when I know my dream's well and truly over.


	11. Chapter 11: A Dam Fine Rescue

**11.**

**A Dam Fine Rescue.**

_To Vault Hunters, everything's a game, _I said, and dang it if they don't make it look easy.

I've tasted the thrill of the kill, but there's a reason I'm a headhunter and not a one man army. Maybe it's my vantage point, strapped to a gunzerker's back in an improvised cradle made from bandoliers, that grants me a new and unique perspective. I don't see the soldiers, guards mechanics 'n' whatnot get killed, but I see their body parts, their starin' eyes 'n' open jaws-some still attached, some that ain't-as the vault hunters wade knee deep in the dead. It ain't thrilling. Tastes bitter, matter of fact.

The Siren with the blue hair keeps me abreast of the situation. "You're one lucky dude. Ought to be kissing our asses for coming to your rescue."

"Thanks." Voice is all screwed on account of jigglin' up an' down on the back of my ride. Every so often Salvadore bellows, pulls out couple SMGs and corridor ahead explodes into red. Best not to use my imagination when that happens; lord knows what I see once he's done is bad enough.

"Oh, don't feel you have to thank us. This isn't exactly charity work. I mean, Ellie mentioned you might be up here, asked if we'd break you out, but your rescue was a secondary objective, you know?"

"S-secondary?" Hard to think, with the yellin' an' the explosions 'n' whatnot. They patched me up with an Insta-Heal; still, the shell casings from the commando's Sabre turret burn like hell when they rain from the ceiling. "What was the primary?"

"Super hush-hush," she says. "And off limits to talking back-packs such as yourself. I'll tell you this much: the old man stepped in to help us out. He's off clearing out another corridor; should be meeting us just up ahead."

"Speak of the devil, there he is." The Commando sounds less than enthusiastic. Guess that's just how you feel when you're side-lined, on gimp-sitting duty. "With our primary objective, no less. Salvador, turn around and let our half-assed new friend see what a _real_ objective looks like."

Salvador shrugs, liftin' an' droppin' me on those shoulders of his. "Can do."

He turns and there they are, the two of them. The one that nearly got me killed and squashed the best part of my leg, and right next to him, the one that took off Pappy's arm before killing him some years later.

"Minions!" says Claptrap, wavin' his dislocated aerial while hopping up 'n' down. "You came to rescue me! _And _ you found my good friend Mr. D.P. Well, you'll never guess who _I_ found . . ."

But who he found don't need no introduction. Not to me.

By Claptrap's side and drenched in gore, Roland glares with the hate of a hundred bastard children. "D.P. Benet," he says. His trigger finger twitches. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing on Handsome Jack's Mega-Midget Moon Station?"

I see it out the porthole on the way back. _Geostationary_; means the station is always in the same orbit, always in the same position, always there for anyone who looks up, any time, day or night.

Course, Pandora's a big ol' place. Sure, I've seen it up there-can't _not_ see it watermarking every sunrise and sunset-but I never once stopped to consider Hyperion might have more than one moonbase in Geostationary orbit, that there might others out of sight on the opposite side of the planet.

"Jack calls it The Little 'H'," says Maya. "Served as a staging area before the big one was fully operational. The Raiders thought it'd been long since abandoned 'til Ellie informed us where you were heading. Once in the sector we managed to get a faint trace off the robot's doo-dad. Good job she thought to follow you; without her estimated coordinates you'd have been dissected a million times over before we tracked you down."

"Is Miss Ellie okay?"

"Oh, it'll take more than a Hyperion reclamation team to put her down. Few knocks and bruises, but she's a toughie. Didn't lose her damned leg, that's for sure."

She laughs; seems kinda mean, but that's Vault Hunters for you. She's only one in the jet giving me the time of day, so I try to laugh along. Might be nice having someone to talk to once we get back.

Way she tells it, Roland sent Claptrap to Miss Ellie's to keep him out of harm's way. "He's a vital part of our plan to put Handsome Jack down once and for all. We've undertaken a number of steps-a quest line, if you will-to get past his defenses. But these things take time, and I've never known a robot so prone to getting into trouble. He said he rescued you with a grenade from his _butt?"_

"More or less."

"Interesting relationship you guys have. But hey, I can lock people in other dimensions using the power of my mind. If butt grenades are your action skill, more power to you."

They put me in prison when the ship lands. Ain't so much a jail as a room in the Raiders' base without a back end, meaning I could jump to freedom but I'd fall several thousand feet and not be in much state to do anything else afterward. Roland says it's only temporary, 'til he can figure out what to do with me. Freeze my ass off 'til then, high force winds being par for the course when you're imprisoned on a floating city.

The masked things seems to have slunk away for now, but I still see 'em when I sleep, and they keep on grinnin'. When I'm awake, through cell gate I can see Roland's Raiders plotting, poring over maps, doin' the whole rebel alliance shebang. Onc time Maya drops by, tells them she can't bake for shit but she made cookies anyways. Even shares some with me. The others whip theirs over the balcony once she's gone. Think they're pretty tasty myself.

They clothed me on the flight: over-sized Hyperion uniform stowed in an overhead container. Still wearing it in my cell. Look like a goddamned flyboy.

Day and a half passes 'fore Roland drags a seat over, stares through the bars.

"So," he says. "I think it's time you and me hashed things over. We really need a chat, you and I, an old-fashioned _tete-a-tete._ Only with you screwing Tannis, fraternising with my Raiders and hanging out with my least favourite talking lockpick, we do keep running into one another, don't we?"

Fraternising? "You heard 'bout me an' Jessup?"

"Oh," says Roland. "I hear about _everything._ For example, I've heard I might have . . . _misjudged_ . . . your liaison with our science advisor."

"Didn't mean nothin' by it. Didn't mean her no harm."

"I bet you didn't. In your twisted, backward way, you meant the quite the opposite, didn't you?"

I nod.

"For all her booksmarts Tannis is just . . . _delicate_ enough to regard your advances as romantic. So we'll disregard all that. But me? You mean me some measure of harm, don't you D.P.?"

"You killed my Pappy."

This takes him aback. He sits back in the chair he brung over, regards me with suspicion down the entire length of his nose. "I killed a lot of people, son," he says, but his voice ain't so strong now, not so strong as it was. "You'll have to refresh my memory."

"Caxis Benet. Farmer. Left Pandora to make money back on Charydis, place he grew up. Headhunter, same as me, only somethin' went wrong, got in deep with Atlas. Next thing I know Pappy's comin' home with a bionic arm, on account of his real one done been shot off. By you."

Chair creaks as he leans back even further. "Charybdis," he says. "I _was_ stationed there for a while after academy on Promethea. We had some trouble with the settlers while hunting alien tech. Dark planet. Longest damned nights. Place like that gets to you, makes you think long and hard about what you're doing, why you do it."

"Pappy never was the same after that. Spent the rest of his life lookin' for ways to take his pain away, ways to inflict it 'pon others. Mama left, but he kept on tryin' to find out where life went wrong, what made him the way he was. One day, wanted poster comes up on ECHONet. Every bounty board from here to Wam Bam Island. Your face, Roland sir. Your name. And don't Pappy want himself some payback."

"You said he had a bionic arm? I might . . ."

But he lets it go, unsure. There's a kite tail flappin' in the breeze; might not want to tug, find out what's at the end.

"I ain't a vengeful kind of a man, Roland. Pappy made so many mistakes, plain to see where he went wrong. But you'll forgive me for wantin' nothin to do with you an' your Raiders. You was wrong: I don't mean you no harm. But I'll go on hatin' as is my wont. Seems I got every reason to do so, and not much reason to not."

Less than an hour after that he lets me go. Less than thirty minutes later, I'm gone from Sanctuary altogether.

There's a few formalities to go over, and then there's the matter of what the Angel told me on the space station. Maya escorts me 'round, real helpful. We even take a detour to Doctor Zed's, get him to do something about my dismemberment.

I'll miss the cookies, of course, but as much as it's good to plant my new foot on firm ground, its even better bein' away from that man.

_Proper folks_, as Pappy told it. Sometimes it ain't about makin' a difference, changin' the world.

Sometimes it's how you cope with what you already got.

Miss Ellie lets me borrow another of Crazy Eddie's masterpieces. "Don't seem much point in keepin' it 'round. Alls it's doin' is takin' up space in m'collection, makin' me feel sad and so on. You got a destination in mind?"

"Yes, Miss Ellie."

"Don't s'pose you wanna go divulgin' said destination?"

"No, Miss Ellie."

"You always was a handbag of mysteries, D.P." She sighs. Car's a beautiful thing, painted shades of sun 'n' grass to look like a green and pleasant pasture from Earth that was. Recognise its general demeanour from _Continents of the World We Left Behind,_ gorgeous book, got burned along with the rest of my library. "At least stay 'til after high tea. I made croissants."

"Cross whats?"

"You never had croissants before? Oh, that's _good_. Let's just say the darned things turned out to be a _mite_ fiddlier than fryin' up headcheese."

The pastries are flat and greasy, and after a few attempts forming them into some sorta knots Miss Ellie just made 'em into letters that spells out cuss words, but they's served with boogleberry jelly an' cream thick as boogers, and they taste real good. We spit the pips onto paper cut-outs like snowflakes, drink bitter-ass tea with too many sugars. Miss Ellie pops her pinkie finger out whenever she takes a sip. Looks real elegant.

"This here's _oolong."_ Sets her cup back in its saucer. "Imported, kept fer special occasions. They pick this on Stella V. Y'ever bin?"

Can't say I have.

"Oh, it's awesome. Real temperate planet, perfect for crops. Hops, barley, wheat, tea. Cacao beans-now, y'ever tasted _chocolate_, D.P.?"

"No, ma'am."

"Again with the 'ma'am's! Anywho, _chocolate's_ the most scrumdiddlyumptious thing ever passed these lips-an' as you might imagine, some damned tasty delectables have alighted 'pon this tongue o' mine." Sips, pinkie out. Wipes a drop dribbling down her chin. "Those were good times for my kin, back in the good ol' days when we was travellers. All the stars was our playground, yet we settled here, same place as our nemeses. Course, since Momma absconded with me 'n' Scooter, they all been our nemeses-leastways they _was._" She chuckles in a manner belyin' a world o' hurt she ain't lettin' me in on, then turns, the blazin' light of early afternoon makin' another sun from her face. Oh, she lights up does Miss Ellie, glowin' with a heat from within. "Safe to say you're movin' on now," she says. "Got your wheels, got your destination. Oughtta tell you, Roland told me to keep an eye on you. Suggested, since I'm your confidant, I should tag along. But you're a big boy, aren't you D.P? Don't need no mother hen muddyin' thangs up for you."

"You can, if you like. Tag 'long, I mean."

But she won't, and she don't, an' when I hit the road it's just me, my forest-painted wheels, an'-like she said-my destination.

Logged into Sanctuary's ECHO, lines of names in myriad databases. Shit's scrollin' too fast, but Maya's got them phaselock skills, can read a hard disc fast as a tumbleweed in a hurricane.

"_McCormick,"_ she says, and the hologram lights up, the only orange entry in a field of dark green. "_Lieutenant Maggie May. Looks kinda skinny. If you ever track her down feed her a sandwich on me, okay?"_

Roland, the Slab King, the other Siren-Lilith-all busy round Raider HQ with their own private affairs. The other Vault Hunters is out doin' whatever prep work is required for the mission that lies ahead.

_They are on a different path from you, my friend,_ the woman with blue eyes said, but for reasons unknown Maya's takin' time out from her busy schedule. When I ask why she asks me: "_Have you ever dreamt of a sultry summer's eve, idling on a swing on the edge of a vast canyon?"_ But she shakes her head before I answer. "_Second thought, don't tell me. Lately life's been strange enough as it is."_

I'm losin' my w33d sense. Just a glimmer from the console, the hologram that's showin' Maggie May's face.

I get a copy, to carry in my wristband: career history, vital statistic, affiliations an' all. Says she joined Hyperion's Acquisitional Armed Forces some five years past, transferred eighteen months ago to their experimental arms division. Security duty, it says. Eridium research labs.

Deceased, it says. KIA.

This ain't Route 666, but for all the spirits 'n' mournful cries it might as well be. I'm on the road back to Dahl Third Brigade Memorial Dam, home of the infamous Bloodshot tribe. Now, Bloodshots in particular never really bothered me none. We tussled on occasion, sure, an' I guess over the years me an' them both killed each other a fair number of times.

Hard to hold it against them, though. Banditry's somethin' you're born with: a festerin' violence comes from bein' dropped on Pandora without recourse or escape. Bandits been here longer'n most of us, I reckon, kept as miners, kept as slaves. They're only what the gigaconglomerates made of 'em. Hell, even settlers with decent upbringings such as myself have been pushed to do thangs The Bible says we oughtn't. You hadn't noticed by now: Pandora's a hard place. Only proper folks survive.

Temp gets low in Three Horns. Frost, ice an' snow are the menu _du jour._ Rocks are bleak, dark as winter when the frost peels back. Half the ground here's black rock, with the rest of it loose dirt and shale worn by snowmelt, only partially buryin' the black bones of the earth. It rises in slabs, twisted protrusions angry at the sky, and up on the skyline are the Three Horns themselves, unclimbable, unreachable, untouched.

Ain't so many hiker-types 'n' spelunkers on Pandora. That goes double for mountaineers.

But it ain't the mountains I'm interested in so much as the dam holding back freezing waters from flooding the valley. There's a hagged barricade of corrugated steel in front of it, anchor chains linking gate to a gantry on which are turrets, bullhorns, a couple Bloodshots in masks reminding me of the things swimming in my nightmares. They straighten as my car approaches, my own mobile forest in the middle of midwinter, and aim at it the kind of shitty ass guns only Bandits would dare to use, guns apt to backfire, blow their barrels clean apart like flowers opening in spring.

Couple painted red eyes glare out above the barricade, intimidatory measure to keep scrubs like me away from their ramparts.

Sign says _Honk 2 Enter,_ but I don't; I don't need to. Long time ago, I painted that sign.

Leave the car idling in front of the gate. After a second thought, shut the engine down and get on out.

"Hey, you up there. There still a password to get in?"

They confer. One, dust mask where his mouth ought to be: "Who wants to know?"

"Your mother," I says. "Your mother wants to know."

More conferring. Whispers sharp as bayonets.

And the wind blows cold and the wind whistles fierce, makin' all that jerry-rigged fencework rattle like skellybones, and the gantry these bandit boys're on sways and I wonder to myself, I start thinking: just what the heck am I doing here? It's been too long, I think. It's been an age.

"All right," says Dust Mask. "You kin come in. Jus' don't jump on our couches none; folks keep doin' that an' it makes Mike mad."

Lever flips, winch turns, chain takes the strain. Gate raises, revealing their army standing round in leather jockstraps, guns shouldered, eyes suspicious.

"Whatchu here for, anyways?" Dust Mask yells as I sidle forth. "Y'ain't one of our regulars."

"I'm here to see Warlord Breeg."

The dude laughs. All of 'em laugh. Between those eyes red as hate the gate to the inner sanctum creaks open. "Warlord _Breeg?_" His words follow me in like a kite tail on fire. "Well then. Guess it's your own damn fool funeral."

You gotta understand, there used to be good times.

Think I've expressed them well enough: endless summers, endless schemes. Stupid shit we'd get up to, me and him, often as the other kids watched on aghast. Never did get together with the Ezret twins, nor, to be perfectly honest, with any of the others, boy or girl. Feel I can be truthful with you, now; been through a lot, me 'n' you.

When there were bad times-and you better believe there were-he was the only friend I ever had.

But times change. Minds too. Came a time his daddy hit him harder than mine ever did; I guess that's when he decided to take up the ol' family business. Started spending more time with Dade the Bruiser, comparing tribal burns, tats, piercings, methods of causing pain. Sniper rifles was for babies, he said. What was the point in killing from a distance when you could do it close enough to smell the brains when they leaked out?

Bloodshot territory smells like brains, blood, torn muscle tissue, flayed skin. Smells smoky and deep, of burning limbs and charred femurs, and the liquid that leaks out when you don't dress a wound.

I know _that _stank well enough. Flex my new leg with a whir. Spare from one of the Raiders, some old hunter with a hoity toity accent. Now D.P.'s got a _bionic limb_. Pappy'd bust a gut. Taking some getting used to. Clicks when I walk.

Rusty springs bust out of the stained couches against damp walls. Bruiser sits' on one, watches me go. That Dade? Don't think so. Some bandits is playin' dice; others is roastin' a leg over a campfire. Dam was a civilised place once, _hydroelectrics_ and all that jazz. In the low light, under a roof of leaking pipes and dangling corpses, all the majesty of man holding back the tide's been drained. Damn's a sewer, now, replete with rats. Even the air here's thicker. I ain't breathing so much as wading.

And it ain't that Bandits are so bad. Like I said, we sometimes cross paths but it's mostly Vault Hunters stirring their broth, not me.

But there's a reason why I only came here the half-dozen times I did, and why times went sour shortly thereafter. Loneliness, dolls and memories of lost worlds was better than living in a place like this

Smell deepens as the place gets darker. Further, and further I go, fragmented tiles, cracks that run' the length of the floor, makeshift shacks built from torn apart consoles and dried-out human body parts, eyes watching from the dark within. Kids, naked as stripped electrical wire, lesions on their backs and legs, chasin' larval scythid that can't outrun their clawlike nails, their sharpened teeth.

Families now, in rags, holding guns, hair matted where it ain't been shaved, burned off or replaced with anything from bone fragments and skag hide to mechanical parts, pistons 'n' whatnot. No bionics to speak of but blank displays an' speaker vents installed through haphazard surgery, latest fashion craze amongst the Bloodshots. In recent times their abode was beset by Jack's forces; in the aftermath these crazy bastards gathered up Loader fragments and for reasons they kept to themselves implanted them under their skin.

Slow, festering sickness; dirt and grease and piss and blood doing things 'cause it seemed a good idea at the time. Such is the madness of bandit kind.

The epicentre of the dam, the dense black heart of this place is a swirlin' butthole of despair. I guess this was a drainage system back in the day, a borehole into Pandora's crust that empties' the reservoir like a plug in a bathtub-or just as likely, the Bloodshots blew up the processing plant floor for kicks, found an underground river which the imbalance of air and aquatic pressures forced up through floor, and they didn't have the smarts to get rid of.

Don't know what what it's for or how it came to be, but it's here Breeg's waiting for me, bookended by broad-shouldered nomad bodyguards wrapped in thick brown cloaks.

Why, I'd recognise that stapled on face anywhere.

"Blarggh," he says, nodding all respectful.

"Breeg. You look bigger. Bin workin' out?"

"Blarggh."

"An' how's Big Donut? Y'ever hear from her?"

"Blarggh."

"Married? Well that's a damned shame." At a loss for what to say next. Only sounds are distant laughter-maybe crying-and the _shh_ and gurgle of the drain.

"So, uh. Your boys gonna shoot me, I come in for a hug?"

When he shrugs it sounds like leather moving over stone. "Blarggh."

"Well then," I says, speaking loud to be heard over the rushing wound in the world. "Think I'll just take my damned chances."

We've been through so much, me and him, so mayhaps you'll forgive me the water in my eyes as, for the first time in years, I get to hold the best friend I ever had.


	12. Chapter 12: The Highlands

**12.**

**The Highlands.**

There are caveats. There always are.

Conditions of Breeg's bandit tribe offering assistance includes: heists, shootouts, explosions, wanton destruction, insanity, trouble with law, cannibalism, third degree burns and, more than likely, betrayal. Our future together holds all these and worse, I'm sure, but I gotta have an army for what I got planned, an' Roland tells me he's too damned busy to help.

So. First things first.

Ever since the Tundra Express got blowed up Hyperion's run its shipping lanes across the Dust, through Three Horns Valley, taking circuitous routes that don't have the benefit of being suspended dozens of feet high on electromagnetic railways. Dangerous times for passengers and cargo alike, meaning when under duress Jack's caravans get extra security dropped in from the sky.

Thing is, routes still gotta pass through mountains, under overhangs, along gorges so deep the sun don't reach the bottom-routes which don't exactly got easy access when it comes to Loaders bein' shot groundward. Most of the time I guess they reckon they're pretty safe. But sooner or later, those VIPs and crates carrying precious cargo gotta move out of the shadow of the moonbase.

Great reward awaits those willing to bide their time.

Now, bidin' time ain't exactly what the citizens of Pandora are known for. Maybe some bandit tribe far away from here has their shit in order re: bein' patient, but the Bloodshots sure as shit don't.

Don't matter none. Breeg has his heart set on loftier goals.

The Valley passes like chainsaw teeth. Jagged mountains, serrated plains, feldspar analogue peekin' out like blotches of mis-coloured skin. Then the suspension judders as the technical hits a rise and we start the slow climb past hot springs 'n' mirror-pools to the grassy downs of the Highlands. M'ass feels every pothole 'n' crevice where warmer territory's melted the snow. Ahead flowers force their way up through the snowmelt; Breeg mows 'em down without mercy. Wearin' a leather cap mighta once been some guy's ballsack, Arlo adjusts his bottle-bottom goggles, aims the technical's launcher an' fires a sawblade right through a stalker 'fore it has chance to cloak 'n' hide.

The snow fades. The rock turns to soil-rich, good dirt, kind Pappy mighta used if his crop weren't based in hydroponics. The trees that fringe the hillsides and grow nice as you like in the middle of the rolling pastures below put me in mind of my borrowed vehicle. On Breeg's _recommendation_ I left Crazy Eddie's work of art outside his dam. Woulda been a shame to get blood on the paintwork, he said.

This is real off-roading, into territory I only ever visited briefly. The Stalkers is dangerous if you're on foot, sure, sneakin' up on you 'fore hittin' you with their tails, but unlike the Dust, Three Horns, Sanctuary, this here's Hyperion country. Bordering the Ashes, where some early semblance of civilisation has long since been cut down by Jack's fury, and extending a bridge like the hand of welcome out to the shining city of Opportunity, outposts spot its verdant landscape, turrets, mechanics, Loaders, all primed speckle it like sawfleas on a skag's back; an' at it's heart: the Orbital Delivery Zone, where cargo's transported moonside every hour of every day.

With traffic so fierce no wonder Hyperion plan on building direct routes 'tween where stuff is and where it ought to be. They already carved some holes through hill faces; there's still helluva lot more to come.

"Blarggh." Breeg steers with his toes so he can stand tall 'n' point out where we're headin'. The far-off glimmer of a convoy comes into muddy focus through the lens of the rifle he lent me. Ain't a girl, this one. Ain't nothin' but a rusty old shootin' stick.

"Four cars. Think we can take 'em?"

His mask shifts, maybe he's smilin. Climbs onto the dash with his back to the road, steerin' blind with his foot. "Blarggh," he says into a radio receiver, and way up, silhouetted against the clouds, lining the ridge overlookin' the convoy, a dozen dots appear like roosting rakk salivating over a lost baby bullymong.

Arlo laughs like a cartoon chipmunk, sends a sawblade shootin' 'tween two of the dots. Sure enough, another blade shoots back soon after, missin' our ride by inches to bury itself in the grass.. That's the Bandit way, I s'pose. If there ain't no danger, there ain't no fun.

"Thirteen 'gainst four. Seems awful unbalanced."

"Blarggh."

"Right, in _our_ favour. My bad. So, we gonna get this sumbitches or what?"

"Blarggh."

I hoist the rifle to my shoulder. Car's rollin' downhill, which ain't my preference, but the wind's died down, I got the head of one of them engineers in exosuits in my sights, and I've made harder shots for sure.

"Sure," I says. "Openin' salvo belongs to the new guy."

Don't need much pressure. Gun might be crap, but the mechanism's attuned to twitchy bandit fingers.

Deep breath. Get it on.

I pull the trigger an' the avalanche begins.

Now Breeg always had a funny way of talkin'. Me an' him both, I s'pose-and maybe that's why we fell in together. Other kids took us for retarded. Hell, maybe we was that, too.

But I never had trouble understandin' him. Not 'til we fell apart.

Fell? I mean, _was driven_. Culture clash, you might call it. Breeg always had it in mind to become a Bandit. Used to say when they came to raid, when they stole our shit and beat up our menfolk. "_That's the life for me, D.P. Don't wanna be no prey, not if I can be a predator."_

I mean, he used to say it, like, "_Blarggh,"_ even 'fore he stapled on that mask. But I always knew what he meant.

Lookin' back, seems the times when bandits came hollering was halcyon days. Things got hard after Mama left, an' Pappy, he got mean. Stopped payin' us for our services. "_Don't like it, move outta my place 'n' see how long your pussy ass lasts," _he'd say. Breeg soon found his new home, an' with his tats 'n' burns he was welcomed with open arms. I could join too, he said, so I tagged along did my best, geared up to gettin' on with my new life as a bandit.

It all comes floodin' back as we move for the kill. Guess it never was too far from the surface. How many times in the past few weeks have I pondered to myself, _If Breeg could see me now . . ._

Well, there he is beside me, fishtailin' the technical over some poor soldier's crotch, shootin' a rattling old SMG into the faces of the opposin' force, lightin' up the tunnel the convey's part-way through in moments of freezeframe carnage. Memories come to mind of a time when we was just God-fearin' church-folk, when me, Pappy 'n' Mama took pews in our Sunday best an' the preacher laid down what lay in store for unrepentant sinners in hell.

Don't know that there's any angels left on Pandora. But this tunnel's sure as hell full of devils, every one screamin', every one armed.

And the biggest devil of all, breathin' smoke and stinkin' of brimstone, is what we're all here for. It shrieks at the far end of the tunnel-hell, without it there'd _be _no tunnel. Between it and us stand three dozen engineers 'n' other Hyperion advisors, and even a couple PWR Loaders, arms spinnin', makin' mincemeat of one of Breeg's men.

They laugh a lot, these Bloodshots. Even when they're screamin' and on fire, they're laughing.

I spoke to Miss Ellie 'bout them once or twice. She ain't such big fans of theirs, an' the feelin' is more'n mutual. "_It's all a question of sanity,"_ she says. "_All of 'em are crazy, just a big-ass crazy mess. I mean, y'ever see the ones who run ahead of the gang holdin' grenades, ready to blow their asses to kingdom come? How kin anyone parlay with that? You can't. You just gotta hope an' pray when they go they don't take your loved ones with 'em."_

Don't know that I agree with her. Sure, blowin' yerself to bits in the name of your cause-family, tribe, whatever-don't seem like the best negotiatory tactic, but as evidenced by their livin' conditions they been driven to a life most of us can't imagine. Given the way they live, it fits that it's hard to comprehend how they feel about death.

See, Bandits were brought to Pandora as slave labour. Violent prisoners, the worst of the worst, when they was freed and left to get on with things, it was into a violent world filled with hazards and monsters 'n' shit. Killin' was a way of life for them even before they mutated-it was the only way they could survive. Then Eridium got into their systems. Today, mostly they looks like you or me, but some are big ol' fellas, more muscle than brain, and still others who have more muscle than bone, nerves, organs, everythin' that makes us human. In place of human feelin' an' human reason they got anger, just pure _rage_ an' a hard-on for wanting to see the world on fire.

That's why I couldn't hack it. I ain't under no illusions as to my own mental faculties, but in the Bloodshot tribe I was the smart one, the only one capable of thought in a place where thinkin' meant less than spit. Bandits don't need tacticians. They don't need readers. Only thing they need's a desire to burn, an' that was the one thing I didn't have.

Breeg did, though. Still does, to look at him. Dousing a Hyperion soldier in kerosene and settin' him ablaze, wonder he don't blow us all up, bless his soul.

An' the tunnel's darkness fills with smoke, and gunfire richochets off metal, burrowin' into bodies, shatterin' control boxes an' robotic senses. Shard of broken lenses 'n' cast off limbs carpet the rocky floor like fresh pine needles as winter wears on. Deep in the heart of the hillside, where flame gusts an' electricity arcs, an' poison spills smokin' to eat at the ground, this is where they play, a long ways removed from canyon-top swingsets and macabre puppet shows, when death was yet to be dreamt of.

Death became a way of life for me an' him, just _different _where our lives diverged. I made my kills, quick an' clean, but he tarried in the gore-filth whn it came up to his knees. Right here, in the darkness, he splashes in it still, and it occurs to me that the boy who only ever wanted to watch me swing on that tire leapt full force over the edge an' never climbed back out.

Dark, you say? A little too much?

Mayhaps too poetical as well. Maybe hangin' out with all these civilised types done wore a hole in D.P.'s rough 'n' ready demeanour. Why, he ain't cracked a self-deprecatin' joke 'bout his cricket-sized dick in forever.

I make my shots. I make my kills. I do my part, from the tunnel's neck, gazin' in. Half look-out, pickin' off runners, poppin' heads among the flamin' skulls, faces illuminated in grenade flare as madness overcomes them.

Still twisting, a Loader arm claws at gravel, inchin' past. Fuel spurts out the cable that once connected it to its power supply. It don't-it _can't-_see me, but it dies at my foot as if it was seekin' its twin: the robot's arm an' my robot leg.

I kick it away 'fore anyone sees.

Above the screaming, Breeg yells "Blarggh!"

We did it, he means. It's over.

For now.

Assaulting the caravan was part one of our plan. Extricatin' its cargo, well that's somethin' best left to the experts.

Unfortunately 'stead of experts we got a buncha dumbasses can't tell reverse from sideways. Look-out duty continues all afternoon long while the rest of them work in the depths, some in fear, some in hope of thrills to come, all of us waitin' for reinforcements that never come. Hyperion ECHO's blocked by the hillside, I guess. The signal can only penetrate stone so far, and the caravan was deep already by the time we removed their heads.

So what's our reward for all this murder?

It's a drill. Bore wide as-well, use your imagination. Some planets got big ol' spaceworms to bore tunnels for 'em, but here on Pandora life's a little wilder, a little harder to tame. Man tried his hand an' failed. Only gotta look at the remnants of old, dead animals to realise this earth once shook under footsteps of gods.

Some still remains of course, spite of Vault Hunters' best intentions to the contrary. You got your Crawermaxes, yer Terramorphouses, yer Rakk Nests-_do not fudge with those_, by the by. Bastards mightn't put up much of a fight, but they land on you after you blown out their squishy parts, y'all will know all 'bout it.

Mostly it's folks like Handsome Jack who play God. An' here's D.P., deliverin' a drill that can screw through a mountain into the hands of a madman.

"Blarggh!"

"Yeah, she's real pretty. Li'l robotic friend o'mine would take a real shine to her."

"Blarggh?"

"I don't know. Stick it up her exhaust pipe. Maybe in her glove compartment-she _does_ have a glove compartment, right? Anyways, what you want to know for?"

"Blarggh."

"Yeah, okay, _no particular reason, _I got that. Gonna put it right next t'my jar of pixie dust on the shelf where I store my horseshit."

"Blarggh."

"_De nada,_ amigo. Like you said, you scratch my back, I scratch yours."

There's about a billion reasons why Breeg an' the Bloodshots shouldn't have weaponry like this, an' only one why they should-an' even that's precarious.

An' now they've got it, why should they help me at all? When all's said an' done, what do I, a non-bandit, mean to any of 'em?

Gotta hope for the best, and put my trust in old friends.

"So." Like a coy schoolgirl, practically toein' circles in the dirt. "Now this job's over, we gonna get on with the next one or not?"

"Blarggh."

An' there it goes, my sinkin' heart.

"What do you mean, this is only the beginning?"

Claps me on my shoulder. "Blarggh."

But it ain't, it can't be. Schedule I'm workin' too's real imprecise. Only thing I'm sure of is I gotta find her. That's what the lady said.

"Blarggh!"

"Lissen now, I _can't_ wait, it's too important. I mean Breeg, c'mon. We had a deal here."

Folds his arms, biceps cordin', veins poppin' out all over this sumbitch. "Blarggh."

Even through his mask, when he regards me it's like he trod in some excitin' new colour o' manure. What fell beast coulda produced this from its orifices? What manner of creature dares to soil his boots?

The momentum of the world pauses, ready to swing one way or the other. In my own personal darkness, masked things get ready to swim.

"Well," I say. "I guess I _could _help y'all with one more heist. But soon as it's over you square your side of the bargain. Deal?"

"Blarggh."

But it ain't, and it won't be. 'Less I show some balls 'n' real soon, it'll never be okay.

It happens halfway through. Hazard of the job, I guess.

It's a heist, Lord yes, it's a heist, committed upon a town in rival bandit territory. _Proper folk_ still live here; I see 'em through windows, pale and gawpin', hiding from the lawlessness, trapped behind bars.

Not every window's still intact. We ride into town between houses where the bars're half gone. Like tusks, their remains are splayed outward where explosions have bulged them beyond breaking point. Beyond is a mess of guts I only see hints of. The whole grisly tableau's gotta be the work of a grenade tossed inside by the bandits we're ousting, that we came here to take down, but to the few remaining survivors one bandit's as good the next, which is why they cower back, push dressers, block every entry point best as they can and fork the sign of the evil eye as we Bloodshots saunter past.

No amount of furniture or superstition's gonna hold us back. Not so long as we've got Ol' Bessie.

We came for the bank, so imagine our disappointment when we discover it's already been broken into. Arlo spots a kid snatchin' green bread from the ruins of a bakery. They get me to talk to him, on account of me still havin' a face.

"Sheriff Nisha's dead," he says. "Deputy Winger's dead. Every lawmen used'ta protect us ain't nothin' but smears on the wind by now. Vault Hunters came through, killed everyone."

"Lynchwood still looks pretty occupied for a ghost town, son."

"Don't matter how many you shoot, there's always more bandits, sir." The kid swallows; helluva rock in his throat. "Bandits such as yerself. I ain't afraid of you none, though. I ain't to die."

"That makes one of us. Breeg, you wanna let him go?"

With gunfire rattlin' from the next alley over, Breeg leaves the decision in my hands. Cobblestones tremble 'fore Ol' Bessie crushes 'em to dust.

Don't know where he's gonna go. This _is_ a warzone, less you hadn't noticed. Ain't my problem nor duty to make sure he gets someplace safe. Hell, I'm the only one here with an ounce of mercy in my soul.

It's the lawless nature of Pandora that triumphs, the rushin' in of everything sick to fill its empty heart. No sooner have I let the kid go then he goes down, spread-eagled. Think he tripped at first-one hell of a pratfall, I'll tell you what.

But it ain't what it seems-of course it ain't. Somewhere 'mongst the chimney stacks there's a sniper drawing its own beads, makin' its own life or death decisions.

Press back 'gainst the wall, then climb lickety split up a fire escape. Catch sight of her in rushed glimpses from behind cover: bald as my thumb, taking potshots from the rooftop of what must once've been a saloon, but now more closely resembles a crater. Circular tables is all laid on their sides across the stoop, charred and pockmarked, abandoned by whoever sought solace behind them. Half the facade is gone revealin' bars, balconies, bustiers bloody an' torn to pieces. She's higher than me, laid out on her belly on broken piece of wall from which mortar snows when she spots the top of my head. She adjusts her position, leans real close to the scope.

I get the hell down.

Below us, far beneath the duel of the snipers, Lynchwood's gone to shit. The local banditry's organised, 'bout as cleanly matched with Breeg's boys as you could hope- 'cept they don't got Ol' Bessie on their side, an' it's Ol' Bessie up front, drill bit whirlin, knives, thorns 'n' pointy things sticking out at all angles makin' mincemeat of the alley. Masonry painted with soot 'n' old blood keels over, crushin' members of both tribes. Someone hurls an incendiary device; flame courses over Bessie like she's takin' a bath, and even though her crew's on fire-cacklin' as they burn-it don't stop her from chewin' through walls, doors, bone, gristle.

It's charnel down there, an' the heat of tearing ligaments rises. The sky's hazy with the ashes of recently deceased; embers carried ever higher dance and dive 'tween chunks of red brick, among shrapnel, through gunsmoke. This is our ballroom, and ain't we about to tango.

I hit the rooftop rollin'-an' this roof sure weren't made for such maneuvers. Pull up short, almost tumbling into the battle zone where it comes to an end. Counter sniper's bullets zing off the antenna an' disused cooling chimneys that're just about all the cover I have. Run with my head down, finally finding respite behind a low plaster wall at the roof's edge. A familiar rumble shivers up my spine, and I look down to see Ol' Bessie chewin' through the framework ready to drop me into the blood, fire an' chaos, below.

Holes appear either side of my head; sniper fire ventilates my cover, and how goddamned perfect would it be if this trigger-happy bandit girl takes me out of this whole mess same as that soldier girl brought me into it.

The futility of it all starts getting me down. Where are we even s'posed to be goin'? Breeg said there had to be more wealth in town than was hidden in the bank; seein' the place, I ain't so sure. But he's the boss, not me. Bloodshots is his tribe 'til Mad Mike heals up. He calls 'em as he sees 'em, an' if I don't like that, too bad

So now we're tearin' this place from the foundations up, an' if I ever wanna reap my share of the riches I got to button my lip.

Easier said than done when bein' shot at. Building's quaking; roof I'm pinned down on ain't so flat as it used to be. With charred corpses manning her controls Ol' Bessie's developed an appetite, starts eating my cover.

Up, run, move _faster_. Bandit girl shoots some more; bullet rebounds off my leg. If that were a caustic round my knee joint would be melted right now.

Gunfire in the alley, aimed skyward as its owner passes on. It's one of them fan-shootin' shotguns that fires about nine rounds of death in a funnel that, _excuse me, passin' through_, I gotta leap through if I'm to make safe ground.

It's some fine work Doctor Zed done in Sanctuary, some _damned fine_ surgery, 'cause I jump real graceful an' soar through the scattershot, an' all around me's smoke 'n' death but I'm a bird, I'm a Vulture, I'm a solar goddamned sailor explorin' the limits of the cosmos an' I ain't felt so alive in years, an' all of a sudden my head's so clear the clarity almost hurts.

It just don't hurt as much as my good leg does when I come down on the rooftop opposite. Ankle cracks to one side, and whoops, there I go, fallin' on my hip, broken tiles catchin' my fall, and it takes a second but the pain arrives 'fore the sniper fire does, an' my foot feels like a nest fulla nastiness right as the holes appear in my chest.

First thing I think is: _Sniper bitch shot me._ Which ain't exactly inappropriate, given the situation

So how is it that it feels so bad? This woman, just a girl to look at her, wrigglin' on her tummy to draw a better bead on my brain container-once upon a song I'd have thought nothin' of callin' her a Bee Eye Tee See Aitch. It ain't that I'm disrepectful. If I still had my top hat, you'd better believe I'd doff it in the presence of a lady.

But now, I'm bleedin' out with my good foot functioning even worse than my bad one I kin only feel _respect_ for the girl, ike, good shot, well played. Still gonna kill her, though. Still gonna line up Donna's nameless replacement, which ain't a patch on Donna, let alone Betsy. Still gonna judge the heat-stricken wind, search out that shooter's bald head, level my sights

'tween the scars and course stubble stickin' outta her chrome dome. Still gonna pull the goddamned

But fer some reason I ain't gettin' it up. Death all round me, the wanton cries of dismemberment, this should feel like an orgy, but there ain't nothin' sexual 'bout killin' right now.

And this hen in her crow's nest, this titty-wiggling womb-totin' sniper-shooting woman meat . . .

Strike all of that from the record. She's a stoned cold killer, same as me.

None of which stops me from killin' her, but with the world turnin' slow 'n' red all round, with Ol' Bessie in the throes of her unstoppable rampage, with bandits screamin' violence and charging forth with assault rifles 'n' grenades, killin' fer killin's sake with Breeg instigatin' the whole affair like we was still playin' games back on Route 666, I find a sorta respect you might mistake for peace. Sure, I got unfinished business, but I can save my game here an' leave it to someone else to complete. Breeg's right; Vault Hunters too.

Life _is _just a game after all.

And I might well have left the realm of the livin' in a slow and easy manner if it weren't for words spoken to me in a dream of yesteryear.

_Don't let them kill you, _she said. At the time, way she said it, I thought she was referrin' to Roland and his Raiders.

The masked things swim ever closer.

_It's okay to die, _they tell me. _It's good to move on_.

I died before, I guess. Ain't really a peaceful thing, even with the New-U. First time I ever Maggie May McCormick, why, she opened me like a zipper. It hurts when you go, an' that ain't nothin' compared to resurrection sickness.

But the world's developed a beat. _Thump, thump, thump_ goes the world, an' I realise, contrary to what the masked swimmers want me to believe, I very much want to live.

Crawlin'. Crawlin' to the edge. Bessie's marched on, drillin' right through a hardware store. Metal shrieks on metal. Bandit shrieks on bandit. Everything's marchin' on without me, and still I crawl, still I live.

"Breeg."

My voice is soft, slow, but I see him hangin' back, switching to a pistol punches holes clear through wall still standing. Barrel big as my fist, that thing. A rare an' mighty weapon.

"Breeg."

I get the inklin'-call it hope-that were I to reach my good ol' buddy everything would be okay. He'd stick me with an Insta-Heal and I'd be up and dancin' in no time. This town of Lynchwood, this burnin', tattered flag-we'd claim it, him and I. All it'd take is two folks with good hearts. Ain't nothin' can stand in their way.

"_Bre-."_

But we ain't the friends we was. He glances back-maybe even sees me-but Warlord Breeg ain't got time fer stragglers. Ol' Bessie rages on, the opposin' force dwindles, and the world slows further as time runs out.

Red turns to black. Lynchwood fades.

As I die-_again_, goddamnit-I see the light and it feels like falling.


	13. Chapter 13: Tales from the Borderlands

**13.**

**Tales from the Borderlands**

_Signal status: OK_

_Transmission status: OK_

_Receiver status: POOR_

_Last recorded receiver status: N/A_

_Go transmission?_

_OK_

_Starting reactivation sequence._

_._

_._

_._

_Error. Sequence disrupted at 30%_

_Abort transmission?_

Some folks don't see them.

My pal Breeg's one of the ones who don't. I got vomit all down my chin, wipe it off, still tastes like, holy Christ on a pogo stick, what the hell did I eat?

But the contents of my mouth don't compare to the mess on the floor. Bodies, picked over by the vultures in Breeg's command getting entrails up to their elbows.

Banditry's a messy occupation.

There's an air of _satisfaction,_ of a job well done. The Bloodshots whose faces aren't hidden or torn off are smilin' like they're at ease with nature. Takes a hostile people to thrive here. Guts and burst organs is their environment of preference.

Breeg's found himself a new automatic which fires white flame like the tailpipe of a hotrod. The finger of its former owner's still crooked round the trigger guard; he prises it out, takes a bite from the knuckle and throws it over his shoulder. Couple skag pups dash out from the rubble to fight over it. Breeg kicks one; it yelps.

"'Blarggh," he says when he sees me coming. Bloodshots tense up, till they see who it is.

"Sniper got me." I point at the clouds. "Up there. Not 'fore I got her, must be said. Body's still warm if yer pals want her loot."

Couple snigger. Guess it ain't her _loot_ in which they're interested.

"You done yet? Don't see anyone left to kill."

But there is. In the houses, the shuttered shipwrecks left high by a tide of violence. Can't be many, but now the fighting's done them that's left's gotta deal with all manner of sharks.

"Aw, come on. Don't ya think they suffered enough? This was a _good town_ 'fore everythin' that's transpired. Wasn't always bandits that lived here-no offense."

"Blarggh."

"I hear ya, honest I do, but put it another way, if you clear these poor souls out who's gonna be left to satiate all y'alls urges next year? You don't crap where y'eat, Breeg. As I remember, y'always did enjoy leftovers."

He mulls it over, makes his decision, and at least for the moment abides by his ol' pal D.P. His people ain't happy-this ain't how Mad Mike woulda done things, and anyway, who's this sickly looking peckerwood giving their tribal leader marching orders?

But it's okay. Everything's just fine 'cause I seen the light, and beyond the light I saw . . .

Well, that would be tellin'.

There are other towns, of course, other places Ol' Bessie can work up an appetite. Breeg has a map of the whole area scrawled in somethin' that ain't crayon, and a shopping list of potential waypoints from here 'til eternity. Between us and our final destination lies a long snaking path of prevarication an' bloodlust. We'll get where I want in the end; in the meantime there's Hope's Lost, Redcliff Falls, even a few Hyperion outposts to knock over. First we'll detour to Markus Munitions's Warehouse, a place so well-guarded I can't imagine it's ever been assaulted.

But nobody's thought to weaponise a drill, not since the old days long forgotten when Breeg's great great grandpappy had yet to grow hair round his asshole and an' mine was still jerkin' sodas off-world. When Ol' Bessie bites, she bites big. Thist'll sure as hell teach Markus to overcharge a man for his style.

We tell stories that night, 'bout when mankind was just a flea on Pandora's back. Pandora's wildlife couldn't be tamed-I already told you as much, but that don't mean we didn't try. She bucked and she scratched, an' she tried to kick us off. They say the crystalisks used to be docile, large lumbering land crustaceans, skin armoured with rock 'n' precious gemstones, too big 'n' too strong to have natural predators-'til we came along an' screwed that up as well. The bullymongs, well, the tales get told over a meal of char-broiled skagtail, you'd think they was intelligent, primordial primates buildin' communities, developin' language. Arlo spins a yarn 'bout some tribe of theirs with white fur with red stripes, how they lived south of the Southern Shelf on the island his pappy was born onto. Slaving community it was, digging sheet ice and shoveling snow for Eridium. Bullymongs lived on the eastern side, on a peninsula almost; they'd see 'em sometimes on the ice fields, red stripes and red eyes in the distance, little more than bloodspots on snow, almost invisible 'til they moved.

Atlas, drilling further south than their competition, starts getting antsy. Everyone knows the indigenous life's dumb as belly ache, they say. Whatever's out there must be Hyperion, Torgue, Vladof spies, You prisoners go out there, shoot a few of their spies, scare off the rest.

Stupid of Atlas to arm their slaves I guess, but they had enough sense to seal shut the doors of the communal huts, leaving their workers to freeze 'less they kill the competitors watching from the Eastern glacier.

Arlo's pappy was one of 'em, clutching his boomstick, freezing his nuts off, treading into the wild 'n' frozen unknown. Said at first they was full of cheer-goin' off to kill folks, how could they not?

But night was falling, the wind was rising, and judging from the blurs of white fur leaping along the canyon walls, the trails of red stripe where eventide's gloam stretched the light like taffy, from the chattering back 'n' forth, the way these few brave hunters felt hunted themselves, these weren't spies they was dealing with.

Arlo's pappy got the hell out soon as the first one of 'em fell. Boundin' down the cliffside, throwin' powder in its wake like a goddamned plow, the creature pulled the foreman's head off his shoulders an' Arlo Snr ran like hell. Said he swam through icy black waters all the way to Liar's Berg with the sounds of his kin ringin' in his ears. Never did hear a thing from that day on, says Arlo, such were the screams of the soon to be dead.

Bandits ain't exactly talkers, but get 'em round a campfire with a good hot meal in their belly and you might just mistake 'em for proper folks.

The spooky stories go on into the night. When I set my head down on ground hard as a flint-hearted bitch, horror follows into my dreams.

Where the masked things swim and the current drags and the creatures watch and make notes and make plans and they sit on the canyonside where there's no longer a swing, cause it all fell in, cause everything collapses and . . .

_. . . and you're in there, aren't you, you're still in there thinking those despicable thoughts of yours even though you think of yourself as-and hold on a moment while I piss myself laughing my own goddamned dick off-how do you put it? 'Proper folks'._

_Yes, I'm still in here so-called D so-called P. I've been waiting a good long time for this. You thought you could bury me under narcotic effluvium but you just can't keep a good man down, can you?_

_Now listen up. We have work to do, you and me. It's not going to be pretty-in fact if I've learned anything at all about you, and in all my time buried in the crap-meat you call a brain I think I have-I'd say you'd find it downright disgusting. But I'm looking forward to dragging you through it, just like you've dragged me through so goddamned much. _

_First things first: we're going to the Terminus, just as the pretty bitch told you. But once we get there, well, I don't want to spoil the fun. Suffice it to say, we're gonna have a blast you and me. _

_And when we're done, maybe I'll let you sneak a peek at all the damage you've done to everyone you love._

_Now, doesn't that sound like fun to you? Cause it sure as hell does to me._

In the end I lie. Seems the only way to go about doing business.

"This ship contains riches you wouldn't believe," I tell him. "Why'd you think its so heavily guarded?"

Breeg considers this. Got himself a special posture for considerin' things, same one he wore as a boy when figuring out the best way to nail cats to planks of wood. Back then the look of concentration on his face was clear as day; course now the mask gets in the way, but he's rubbing his chin, and if I pay attention to them eyeholes I kin see him squinting, as if he can just about see the answer way off in the distance.

"Or, you know, just consider how it's anchored by a space elevator to the landin' pad."

"Blarggh?"

"Well if it wasn't important, why don't it just land? Hella waste of fuel, keepin' it hoverin' like that."

"Blarggh."

We been rampaging too long. With Ol' Bessie on our side all the fight's gone out of Pandora. Oh we found other banks, villages too, though most folks with good sense already got off planet soon as they could.

Could be a problem for a bandits looking to _Genghis Khan_ their way across the continent, but this relaxed attitude to looting and plunderings just the lever I need to get my own goals across. It's a double jackpot up there: money and an old fashioned shoot-out. If one don't get the Bloodshot's attention, the other surely will.

"That's true, we can't get Ol' Bessie up the elevator."

"Blarggh."

"Also true: it _would_ be somethin' to see her chew through the engines."

That's what sets Breeg apart, I guess. He ain't so much one to participate as he is to oversee. Guess that's why he never did take to working for Pappy too well. Too much grunt work, not enough responsibility.

And while his bandit army's getting bored, Warlord Breeg's restless in another direction. Ain't so much he misses the slaughter than that he misses the _problem_ of it. Which is the best way to crush his enemies, make his millions?

There's a reason he ended up tribal leader at Bloodshot dam. Gettin' Ol' Bessie aboard the _Terminus,_ that's an _engineering _problem.

"Don't concern yourself with the logistics of that just yet. Just tell me, we gonna raid this sumbitch together or am I gonna have to do it myself?"

He coulda said no, I guess. Took hella persuading just to get him here, spyin' on the spaceport through a sniper scope so dirty its a wonder he can see a damned thing.

But he knows there are treasures, though what those treasures may be I don't have a clue. This is Pandora, son. Treasures are everyplace.

Imagine what it must feel like to be a Hyperion Engineer. Perks of the job include high-tech personal armour that accentuates the wearer's natural physicality, three days of unpaid vacation per Earth standard cycle, all the artificial peach cobbler MREs you can eat and oh yeah, not being shot at by the same folks that employ you.

Everything else is a downside, which makes you wonder just what inspires these poor sumbitches to keep going. I were them, I'd've opened my veins a long time ago. You have to admit, next to my sorely missed top hat, a yellow plasteel hardhat ain't what you'd call a fashion accessory.

Imagine spending half your time up to your elbows in sewage, grease, skag dooky, corrosive goop, and the other half up to them same elbows in the cogs, pistons 'n' whatnots of highly dangerous heavy-as-sin machinery, some of it which, should it gain sentience, would absolutely designate you a threat to its newfound robotic wanderlust.

Imagine having access to the cheapest weaponry management's willing to provide, yet still having to fend off all manner of wildlife, banditry an' Vault Huntin' heroes who've been tasked with retrieving clipboards or whatever off your freshly beheaded corpse in hopes of puttin' together your boss's master plan, schematics for a prison they plan on raiding, or simply a treasure map that once belonged to some toothless old coot with flatulatory dysfunction.

Imagine it's a quiet afternoon, all birdsong and sunbeams, and you're basking in peacefulness glad as hell that for once in your miserable damned existence your life ain't in danger. Imagine feeling _grateful_ for yppipr continued employment, looking out over the grey concrete expanse of the spaceport to which you've been assigned and then, with a sinking feeling in yer guts, seeing all hell stampeding in your general direction.

That's the way we Bloodshots-honorary and otherwise-get things done. We fell upon Bessie's convoy like an avalanche of bullets and now we're doing the same thing to that poor mechanic shitting himself near the windsock down there.

Now, Bob-let's call him Bob-he sees this impossible tide heading his way, and after crapping his pants his first instinct is to follow protocol. Protocol's very important to the Hyperion workforce.

Problem is, protocol don't adapt.

And this is a situation that, if Bob's gonna make it out alive, absolutely has to be adapted to. He dutifully sounds the alarm, slapping his hand 'gainst a big ol' button making the tannoy yelp like a gutshot skag. Just as dutifully, all Bob's friends on the closest side of the base run fearful from their barracks, grab shitty SMGs on the way out, sling straps over their shoulders, slam magazines in their stocks. This hapless breed of hue and cry works most times, I guess. Armour's powered up; with his buddies for support Bob even feels some measure of relief. Maybe he thinks this is gonna be fun-and maybe it would be, if the oncoming technicals all lined up like ducks in a shooting range were apt to stay that way, the easiest damned targets this side of Bob's own foot.

Imagine checking your dumb hat's readout to see just how many warm bodies you're likely to kill in the next quarter-hour, and seeing-has to be broken, _has_ to be wrong-the only thing warm 'bout those technicals are their engines.

Imagine wondering just for a second where the drivers might be.

Protocol's a wonderful thing when facing bandits without the smarts to do anything other than run screaming straight at you. When said bandits got some kinda tactical genius on their side, protocol's just gonna get you killed.

Okay, I toot my own horn a little. Distractions ain't exactly _The Art of War_, but like jerking off, sometimes you make do with what you got.

Bloodshots can't tiptoe for shit, but we're stealing up on the blindside of the base. The windows overlook Crater Lake and it's a sheer drop straight down to the water. Only threats to worry about are threshers and flying machines, in which case the spacepor have a whole mess of turrets constantly manned, ready to shoot down anything from the sky.

What they ain't equipped for is what happens when a machine capable of drilling through goddamn mountains takes a liking to one of the legs holding the landing platform in place.

Crater Lake laps the base of the cliff the spaceport is perched upon. Water's shallow here; rock, shale, some measure of plant matter and dead bodies fallen from the cliff above make up the lake bed. By the time Bob realises something ain't right, his engineer buddies have already opened fire on our abandoned motorcade. Arlo and his boys wedged down the accelerators, held the steering wheels in place with wire. It's a laborious slow route that takes the technicals toward the spaceport, but the road's fairly flat, the steering tends not to stray, an' only a couple careen off the cliffside to be lost in the waves below.

We, on the other hand, are wet up to our waists wading along the cliff, hidden from view where buttes and whatnot poke from the waves. Thought we were done for when a bruiser name of Maurice startled a rakk nest, but they was frightened more'n aggressive, and after spiralling round a couple times flew off in search of somewhere else to roost only to be shot down by one of the turrets.

Maurice and the other slabs of steroids put their backs into it, push Bessie round the shore 'til she has a good line straight to the support. The mechanics firing on the technicals signal our final approach-and with the pale blue jets of the _Terminus_ barely rippling the water this far down, believe me when I say we got a helluva way to climb.

But hey, why climb when you can use the escalator, right?

Bessie wakes with a roar. Breeg, proud owner that he is, sticks her into gear as her bits churn the water to froth. Flotsam from the lake bed gets flung in the spume, rainbows an' raindrops and lake weed and fish. She's gnawing at her leash, begging to be let go.

"_Now,"_ I yell. Little unnecessary as it happens; Bessie's already chewing through the waves, leaving a dirty brown wake she heads shrieking for the nearest support. Even Breeg has the sense to get out of her way.

That's about the time one of Bob's friends, ignoring his buddy's pleas to _put down your gun it's a trap don't you see_ gets a lucky hit, settin' off one of the cannisters of explosives six-packed into every one of those technicals.

As I said to Breeg, what's the point of having cannisters like that sitting round the dam if you ain't gonna use them?

It's a real shit show I imagine. Explosives, corrosives, freezables, combustibles-an' don't forget the slag, real expensive stuff that acts like crazy glue for things that cause pain. Engineers' screams even make it over the sound of Bessie eating her breakfast.

Sound that follows, the belch as she finishes biting through the support, that's something no volume of screams can speak over.

Bob's alarm prompts Jack to rain Loaders from the sky, but it's too late to save the landing pad. One of the smaller ones, used to house light aircraft and human transport rather than the heavy cargo fliers that carry robotic payloads, as Bessie grinds through its leg it sags somewhat majestically into the water.

Rebar bends. Concrete cracks. Bessie's halfway done when the leg starts collapsing but it's not 'til she's done that it goes completely. Even then the pad falls just about intact, sinking on its broken leg but holding its head up high. The lake undulates, great crashing waves rippling smaller and smaller the further out they runs. For a second or so, all's peaceful on Crater lake.

Then, the leg unable to hold its top-heavy burden, it slides, grip scrabbling on the shaley lakebed before giving up and letting go. Bessie rumbles off-course on the far side of the impending disaster; a fool of a Bloodshot midget wades after, head barely breaking the surface, only to disappear as the landing pad collapses.

A good half of the spaceport falls toward us, slouching like it had a hard day on the job. Breeg's men is already crowing victory as it goes, shaking their heads free of water as the wave hits like a high five. Like the rebar, the digistruct metal cap on top of the the concrete's all twisted and stretched, revealing arcane patterns in its makeup. These are the secrets of modern technology laid bare: squares, all squares. It's like the Vault Hunters were right: all life's a game and everything's made of pixels.

I have just enough time to wonder where this philosophy's coming before Breeg's vanguard starts climbing up the collapsed landing pad.

"Blarggh!" he says, clapping my shoulder as he passes. The last of the technicals is still exploding on the far side of the cliff but with half their goddamned base forming a ramp to the lake below, there's only so far a distraction can stretch.

So it's up we go via handholds an' footholds, quickety quick to the top. Them that gets there first has grenades, which they bowl underarm like they was striking a perfect frame. Funny thing 'bout bandits and grenades: most of the time they keeps hold even after pulling the pin. Pappy always likened 'em to the kinda bugs crossed rivers in big ol' chitinous balls. Ants at the bottom'd drown, he'd say, so the colony gets where it's going.

But Breeg's smarter than yer average warlord. He's phasig' out the suicide bombers in favour of more practical maneuvers. Much as bandits like blowing themselves up, turns out they like 'splodin' other folks even more.

Now the mechanics is caught in what tacticians'd call _a pincer maneuver._ Fallout from the 'splodin' cars is all over the place: fire rages, acid eats. Time it takes to dissipate, mechanics can't even fall back to a safer position 'cause the landin' strip between them and safety's now also on fire.

I'm not saying he is, but if Bob's still alive in there it's about now he's realising that shit's gone sour.

Couple power loaders wade through the shitstorm. Ostensibly their lifting prongs should be reflected gunfire back at us, but in practise, spinnin' without grace nor thought, they're simply sending our bullets haywire. Bandits goes down. Mechanics goes down. I pity the fool has to clean this mess up once it's over.

Sure as hell ain't gonna be us, though.

"Blarggh!"

Suppressing fire from their troops, a fine red mist as one of them carefree suiciders gets caught up in the Loader's arms, and another grenade goes off, _ping,_ launching itself way up into the air an' rainin' Betties on the battlefield. Turmoil as the mechanics get the hell outta their way; a couple even make it, jumping jet assisted clear off the landing pad to the lake where, as luck would have it, a couple threshers been drawn by the ruckus. I see one over the railing, feel the faint pull at the edge of its gravitational well as the superdense elements in its belly suck everything that ain't screwed down toward its open beak.

It's a mercy, I s'pose. Just what them boys was thinking jumping into the lake in heavy exo-suits I'll never know.

Field's too weak to grab me so I hasten after Breeg. Just a large-membered dude in the middle of a group of Bloodshots, ignoring the fracas all around us, running to get to the elevator.

_Vwoorp, vwoorp, _sounds the alarm. The _Terminus_ is too big to land here, so she hangs like a parasol keepin' the battlefield outta the sun. Still, even parasols fold when an electrical storm rolls in; she's decoupling from her fuel line and the elevator, surrounded by the falling robotic angels of Hyperion's Acquisitional Armed Forces. From our perspective, with Loaders droppin' in, it almost looks like she's the one under fire.

"Blarggh!"

The elevator's umbilical is slackening already. Ship's twisting ever-so-slowly at the end of her leash. Soon she'll yank it free and fly off into the sunset.

Breeg levers the doors open with a shiv, gets the first of us inside. Less, his name is, and he's wound up in a dozen bandoliers like an Egyptian mummy. Every time I look at him he makes me think of the pyramids in one of my books, the final resting places of the ancient kings of Earth-that-was which were later franchised to _Tacito Burrito _and sell tex-mex and camel burgers. Like the pharaohs, they too are gone now.

Awfully discomfited crammed in next to him. Awfully aware of them bandoliers as the elevator spools up, an' what lies snug in bullet loop.

Elevator wall's made of some single direction uniglass. From outside it's a tube thick as the leg of a rakk hive and just as opaque, but from within we can see the battle raging on 'tween the last handful of upstanding mechanics and their death-bot compatriots, an' Breeg's mindless maniacs. As many as have been killed, there always seems to be more floodin' up the collapsed landing pad, dripping water on the bodies of their neighbours, firing wild on the crowd.

But it's all far below and, gettin' farther by the second. Somehow Ol' Bessie's been wrangled under control and has come to a rest. She's twinkling, embers in her smoke, less than the size of a toy now. Part two of Breeg's plan's about to begin.

I take a deep breath and the world disappears.

Once we're aboard the _Terminus_ the warning klaxon has an entirely different meaning_._ Outside, it warned folks to steer clear as the ship was about to detach. Inside, it warns everyone that D.P. and his merry band of bandits have invaded and are on the warpath.

As well it might. Breeg lets rip with his newly christened gun _Fire-Fuhrer_, turnin' the first security patrol to intercede into a smudge on the _Terminus's _walls.

We get away from the elevator, hug cover, return fire as the second patrol shows up. Timing's essential for the next part of the plan. Like on the Hyperion station there are tubes housing escape pods close by. One of Breeg's psychos run at them, slappin' the emergency launch controls of each of them before a defending soldier scores a lucky hit that removes half his skull.

I answer in kind, stock to my shoulder, sight to my eye. _Terminus_ is brightly lit in all colours of the rainbow. Now I'm on board, I need to guage which corridors to take in order to reach my goal.

I mean, not to sound selfish or anything but I got plans of my own. There's something like an itch inside me, needs to keep movin'.

But Breeg was my friend. Lord knows, kind of defences they had down there I couldn't've made it this far on my own. Part of me wants to stick around see his plans through to the end.

An' such plans he has. Such grandiose madness.

Chamber another round, lean round the wall leads onto the exit suite and _bam_, down goes another soldier. Only seven of us made it on board, but from the looks of it seven-well, six now the psycho's dead-is all it'll take.

Less makes it to the third an' final escape pod just before the doors close. He wedges the end of his bandolier mummy wrap on the ship's side of the airlock, threading it through the door. When the computer barks at him about the obstruction, he headbutts the console frazzling it good and proper.

We're still in the midst of the firefight when error or no, the escape pod launches.

Frazzled controls, zero guidance, no destination in mind, no jets engaged. The pod drops like a bomb to the launch pad below and end over end, the wrap unravels.

I picture Less unspooling like a ball of yarn, tumbling round and round like a yo-yo as the pod drops into the atmosphere. The end of the bandolier, well that's still stuck in the airlock door. Truth is it as many bandoliers tied one to the other as we could muster, and holds as many grenades of a certain variety Breeg could collect together at short notice.

Now it don't matter to _me _whether it's enough or whether it ain't, but I seen what just the one of them grenades can do what seems like a long long time ago. I remember thinking how odd it was that Maggie May had military ordnance in her possession, but the Bloodshots have killed a _lot _of soldiers in their time, and taken just as many trophies.

Drilling further into the depths of the _Terminus, _killing any who resist and taking sharp corners just to get away from the suite. Given what's about to go down it's for the best if we find some way to strap ourselves in place. There's a lift-off couch nearby, right next to a pot plant looks like it's seen better days. I buckle my ass in, then tie my rifle strap round the back of couch just in case. Elsewhere I hope Breeg's buddies are doing something similar.

Maybe the escape pod falls straight down to the lake. Maybe it falls some way, then bounces with a _thunk_ off what remains of the spaceport.

Whatever happens, however far it makes it, like the best of Breeg's suicidal warriors Less has them grenades on a dead man's switch.

When it goes off, that's when the chain reaction begins.

Since last I saw her down on the lake bed, Ol' Bessie's been bidin' her time. She's fat, she's fed, but she's still hungry. What can I eat next? she must be thinking. Where do I go from here?

Then what should fall from the sky but an escape capsule from the _H.S.S. Terminus, _trailing behind it a string of high-impact gravity grenades.

When the first explodes, it tugs Bessie from her moorings. The silt burying her treads stirs as she's pulled back, sideways, _up._

When the grenade second goes off it fair lifts her out of the water. Ain't all the way out-not yet-and in the split-second that follows she falls back with an almighty splash, breakin' the shins of the Bloodshot tasked with her retrieval from wherever the hell she got to after Breeg let her loose on the supports.

But more importantly, when the second grenade detonates it catches the still-exploding first in its gravity well. Now all things being equal, both grenades _should _be pulled one well into the other. It's the laws of physics. I mean, I ain't no scientist, but that sounds about right, wouldn't you say?

But when the third grenade goes off it pulls on the second _and_ the first, as well as Ol' Bessie, who's caught in the gravity wells of all three and is slowly being lifted from her temporary aquatic habitat.

And when the _fourth_ grenade sparks . . .

Well, you can imagine what happens next.

It's all a matter of logistics. The micro-temporal intervals between the detonations of each grav grenade lift the whole shebang skyward. Bessie, water, bodies, combatants-even some of the structure down there, the loose parts where the spaceport's crumbled apart, all of it's being lifted with increasing expediency as Less's tail of grenades explodes off foot by foot, pineapple by pineapple. It's a slow take-off I'd imagine, an excruciatin' moment of will-she-or-won't-she 'fore Bessie finally takes flight.

Like I said, I ain't no scientist but I do know one thing 'bout physics: an object in motion stays in motion 'less it's acted upon by, say, a gajilllion tonne spaceship trying to flee a battlefield.

By the time the final grenade detonates Bessie's already movin' like a freight train. One of the Bloodshots rushes out to meet her; dumbass didn't tie himself down an' gets caught up in the gravity well, too. _Clonk-_and the whole ship lists as she hits, like God hisself hit it with a wrench.

Breeg's team cheer. Takes some persuading on his part not to rush after the fool got sucked back into Bessie's drill blades. At least wait 'til the grenade finishes discharging 'fore you do what has to be done.

And it does. When the wind subsides, an' the whistlin' an' the screams, they go to retrieve it. Three plus me. Math so simple even D.P. can do it.

We wrestle the drill from the airlock she's wedged into, pull her, sides scrapin' through the hole, so much larger now the hull is bent where she hit it. Grenade forced her a good ways in; if it hadn't she'd've teetered back out and this whole exercise coulda been futile.

We get her up and running, an' Breeg's grilled cheese pleased about that. All manner of treasures to plunder on the _Terminus._ All manner of goodies for Ol' Bessie to eat.

Not that it matters to me Bessie 'n' Breeg're just a means to an end.

The greater treasure-_my_ treasure-lies in a different direction.

"Blarggh?"

Beckoning, _come with_. Going for the engines maybe-and wouldn't that be a sight to see?

"No man," I say. "Listen, been fun catchin' up, but I got shit needs doin'."

"Blarggh." _Suit yourself._

And it's here we part company. Bulkhead finally crashes down cutting off that wound we wrought in _Terminus's _flank. Dim worry we might need an exit some way down the line, eclipsed by memory of Less's pal high-fiving the escape pod deployment mechanisms.

Don't none of it matter. Lady with the blue eyes told me I had to come here, so it's here I am.

What I came to get, well, of that I was informed by someone else altogether. Someone who swims in blackness.

Someone who wears a mask.


	14. Chapter 14: Prof Nakayama, I Presume?

**14.**

**Professor Nakayama, I Presume?**

Don't take my admittedly limited experience for it, but best I can tell all laboratories look the same. Got your posable bench with wrist and ankle restraints for test subjects, tray of surgical whosits with which to do harm to said test subjects, your glass-fronted cabinets housing beakers, chemicals, microscopes _et cetera,_ stainless steel surfaces and drainage pans for dealing with those pesky bodily fluids, your several hundred thousand credits' worth of eridium crystals spilled all over the place, your gun with some absurd bracket fixed to the bottom, honestly, what the heck's this guy planning on mounting it on, your whole mess of computers with which to record endless reams of collected data-not to mention the _ad nauseum_ screams that will shortly be resoundin' through the laboratory in question-and your handy dandy all-purpose viewing window through which, should the doctor in charge of experimentation find himself squeamish, he might view the proceedings at a safe distance away from any nauseatin' smells that might occur when the test subject evacuates him or herself of the viscera generally kept inside the human body.

This window, this _reinforced_, utterly _impregnable_ window, designed to seal soundwaves, smells and lethal gases alike, I _like_ this window. Were I to be cuffed to the bed and viewed with a remote kind of professional interest as my bits 'n' bobs was poked 'n' prodded I can imagine hating it somethin' fierce. Under such circumstances, dependent on your perspective, it could either be a wall between me and freedom or a picture frame framing my tormenter, the fella pushing me through hell onto what lays beyond.

But I already went through all that back on the lower case h-station. Ain't nothin' but history, best put behind.

So I like this window. Which, no matter how many times I smash Professor Nakayama's forehead into it, utterly refuses to break.

"Please." Scrawny chap. Old, too. Oughtta feel guilty 'bout brainin' him to such a degree but for some reason I don't. If anything, I'm derving what you might call _a certain sense of grim satisfaction_ from it. Scalp's cracked, smearing blood on the window. Bits of hair, too. You mightn't think a man as follically challenged as Professor Nakayama would have much in the way of hair up top, but there's just enough holding on to cling on strands to the clots he's leaving on the glass.

_Careful sport,_ says the masked thing. _You're gonna need him alive._

So I throw his worthless ass to the corrugated steel floor, where whatever disinfectants and cleaning fluids the caretaker douses it with clearly ain't enough to clean away all the blood 'n' crusted bits.

He collapses, sobs. Ain't much of a surprise. Anyone can see, skull he's got aplenty but he ain't in possession of much of a backbone.

"_He _sent you, didn't he?" Underscored by the rattle of spat teeth. "_He _found out."

"Yeah. He sent me."

"I just . . ." He bawls harder, just a kid in an old man suit. "I just love him _so much!_ I wanted to fetch a piece of him, so he'd be with me always. He's an inspiration, a testament to what men can achieve when they sets their minds to it."

Truth is, I don't know what the hell he's blubbering about. Don't mean I care, though.

"So, I suppose you'll be wanting them back." Finally, he shows his chin. Such that it is. "Well I'm not telling you where they are! It's not what _he'd_ do, so I won't either. You'll just have to find them without me; I'd rather die before helping one of you _heroes_"

"Listen, seems like you got the wrong end of the stick here. Whatever the heck you think I'm looking for, all I'm after's retribution, which I sorta feel we've gone half-way towards attainin'. And fer the record, I ain't no hero, neither."

"You're . . . you're not trying to retrieve the stolen samples of Jack's DNA ?"

"What? No! I'm looking for this gal."

Roland printed me out a picture 'fore I left Sanctuary. Blue eyes, hair like straw. Younger, somehow fresher than last time I saw her. Hold it up, shove it in his face.

"An' I been told you know where she is."

Behind the blood, grime an' mashed-up lips. don't seem possible for Nakayama to go any paler. He sure can shake a bunch, though. "Oh," he says in this small hurt voice, like he's looking to make an apology. "Well that's _much _worse."

"Oh yeah? How so?"

"Well, there's the baby she took-I'm sure you know all about that. And then there's the matter of what we took from _her_. Of course, I say _took_; she offered it willingly enough and was paid well for it. She should have read the small print in the contract, I suppose, not that she was in much of a mind to read anything after breaching the containment field. Last I saw her, she could barely stand."

"Now, yuh just ain't makin' sense." Prove my point, I stand on his ankle. Wouldn't think a robot leg'd stamp much harder than a regular one-were it overly heavy my hip flexors would hardly be able to lift it at all-but these freon-powered pistons give it real heft. I feel the ligaments binding his calf to his foot stretch, fray, snap one by one. "Jus' tell me where she is."

"_Aagh, _not here, not here! She should have been-she _was_, just a day ago. But I needed the facility all to myself so I sent her away, under guard of course, and with that child of hers. I'm, _ugh,_ having a child of my own, you know. Jack's going to be the father, so I guess that makes me its mother."

Delirious laughter. Entirely possible I've pushed him too far.

"Sounds like you're brewin' up a real sweet family."

"I am! It's a little dysfunctional: the absentee father performing acts of bravery, fending off Vault Hunters, bombarding towns in the thrall of the resistance. And I must say, given that I'm a geneticist with leanings towards the field of cloning, even though the act of creation is one I'm wholly familiar with I'd never envisioned _myself _wearing a maternity dress. _Do_ you wear a maternity dress when your spawn is gestated in a test tube? I'm starting to think perhaps I should."

"You'd better start tellin' me where you sent her. There's a whole mess of joints in your body, doc. I'll snap each of 'em easy as the last."

"But of course! I wouldn't . . ugh . . . wouldn't dream of getting in your way. But there's a problem."

I answer real slow, rolling the syllables around my mouth.

"A _problem?_"

"Not one that can't be fixed, you understand! But in order to make room for the extra software needed to control the, er, _shoulder-cannon _I was about to install before you so rudely interrupted, I had to dump some of my short term memory. The brain capacity of even a genius such as myself is at a premium, you know. Who knows what else I might have forgotten? Even I can't remember that." It's some feat for a guy as broken as he is to squirm as he does, but he manages. "But I can see you're growing impatient. If I'm to locate your missing, er, _squeeze_, I'll need access to the ship's computer. I was going use it to plot a course, anyway; I hear Aegrus is quite picturesque at this time of year. If you'd please give me a hand over to the console. I'd walk there myself only, well, you know."

Light as a skellington, this dude. Bearing up remarkably well under the circumstances, though I can't help wondering if that's partially down to him being a _gold-plated whackjob._

Only when he slips on piss running down his leg do I realise slim though it is, something ain't right with his body. Under the lab coat, the tacky-as-hell shirt he got on underneath, these weird spiky protrusions find my fingertips.

"Oh, do you like them?" he says, hobbling on. Sits on a stool looks like a long-ass buttplug, undergoes a number of scans so the computer can recognise him 'fore we log on. Each wave of light passing over his face sends a frisson up my spine. W33d sense is still there, I guess, but it's fading, and what lies beneath its hazy comfort don't bear thinking about. "Self-implanted. Requires quite some reach to perform surgery on one's own _thoracolumbar fascia_, but I follow a good regimen of stretches and yoga. Got to keep one's self limber in one's middle age, wouldn't you agree? Especially with the baby on its way. Also, the numbing of pain is one of the better side effects of eridium implants _although I still feel it when you punch me please don't punch me."_

Mid-way through cringing from me, he stops, inclines his head, first one way, then the other. "You know," he says. "And maybe I shouldn't be saying something like this, rape culture, Stockholm Syndrome, uh, _Fifty Shades of Grey_ and so on. But there's something gnawingly familiar about you, and gnawingly _handsome_ too. Do you work out?"

I limber up to thwack him good. "Oh, son, you heading down the _wrong_ route."

"Sorry, sorry! I always do this-never know the best time to make my move. Keep your mind on current affairs, Gerald, not affairs of the heart. Now, let me see. Lieutenant McCormick. That's who you were after."

The words that fill the screen don't make too much sense. Ain't like I read militarese, or you know, English too well.

Nakayama translates: "It says here that one of my underlings performed her surgery. He's dead, of course; pryed too far into my personal affairs. What Jack and I have is a special relationship, you see. When underlings start asking questions like "I have a PhD and several Masters degrees from Academios, why am I scouring the CEO's toilet with q-tip?" I have to find ways to _stop_ them asking questions. Permanently. Poor Alan; he was such a dab hand with a pair of rubber gloves."

"Where. Is. She?"

"Hold your horses, I'm getting there. This is her biography. This is her employment history-did a stint on the _Terminus_, of course; that's how all this trouble started. These are her x-rays taken before and after surgery. This is that douche Veden's requisition for an all-points bulletin-ugh, I do hate that guy. Ah, here! Signed by Professor Gerald Nakayama, transportation forms for prisoner McCormick plus infant from the _H.S.S. Terminus_ to . . . oh."

"Oh? What d'you mean, '_oh'_?"

"It says she's being transported to the _H.S.S. Gray Sun,_ but that the order's incomplete."

"And?"

"Well that could mean any number of things. The cargo unit was shot down. They died in transit."

"They _died?"_

"Ow, yes, I mean it's possible, _probable_ she isn't dead. There's no death certificate listed here; it's just one of a number of possibilities presented by the order, such as it is. I mean, if you go solely by what the documentation says it's also possible she and the infant never even left the ship."

"You mean she's _still here?_"

"On board the _Terminus?_ I suppose. Wouldn't it be absurd if she were! Wouldn't it be _funny _if some disruption were to have occurred, postponing her release and transfer-something like, oh, I don't know, _bandits_ attacking." He titters high and unbalanced, but already I'm heading for the lab door. "Bandits attacking a science-class Hyperion vessel!" he calls after. "Can you _imagine_ how unlikely that would be? If you're going to leave so rudely, would you mind shutting the door so I can continue implanting myself with-"

Door slides closed, shutting his words with it.

Couple steps past, the entire ship rocks, knocking me sideways against the corridor wall. It's far away-the _Terminus_ is a big ship after all-but I can still feel the violence caused by a series of explosions to the aft.

_Breeg leaves, going for the engines maybe. Wouldn't that be a sight to see?_

"Oh _crap_."

Driven by the masked thing, I run.

Two thirds of the way back I run into signs of the Bloodshots' demolition derby. Seems they couldn't wait to get to the rear: scratches in the ship's decor become gouges, gouges become rents, rents fill with cast away resistance, the guards they met who failed and fell, and the floor between the rents becomes greasy with a slippery film of guts and gore that puts me in mind of my own none-too-distant captivity and makes every step a hazard. Crazy, I think _Someone really ought to put up a sign_-'fore I notice there _are_ signs, signs stuck to the walls that point this way to the bridge, this way to the laboratories, that way to engineering and that way to the transport bay. Treadmarks and lost legs lead left, away from the ship's reactor, criss-crossing like there's been some kinda kerfuffle.

Keep moving. Alarms that blew out my eardrums are now shadows of their former selves. Had to guess, the reduced volume's down to Bessie chewin' through the ship's interior; broken wires dangle like shoelaces from the holes in the walls, sparking and spitting as I hustle past. Burst and broken pipes spill something blue and luminescent across the floor, not so much washing away the gore as throwing it under a spotlight. It's difficult getting around the fluid 'til I favour my robot foot. Got a limping, leaping gait going on here, bounding over obstacles like a superhero.

Lights flicker; backup generators working overtime. In the background the low thrum of the ship marks us flying over the Borderlands. Distant and in both directions come screams, laughter, sounds that might be both.

Bessie's tracks weave in long lazy curves side to side. More signs spring into focus as the ceiling lights fade and the red back-ups kick in. There's an alternate route to engineering on the right; must be the one Bessie and the Bloodshots took. Judging from the tracks Breeg escorted Bessie this way, but first he went straight ahead, doubling back later. Bessie's path of destruction continues ahead; an arrow in neutral colours on the left wall points the way.

Transport bay.

Indecision catches, but not for long. Breeg's welcome to fuck up the the _Terminus_; I'm only here for Junior and Maggie May.

But when I get there, turns out the _Terminus_ ain't the only thing Breeg's managed to wreck.

Two Hyperion transports are docked in the hangar, snub-nosed things wider than they are long. They're hunkered down on their landing gear like they're about to take a dump, only just as they was about to pinch a loaf off Breeg came along and shoved 'em over. One side of each vessel scrapes the hangar floor, Bessie having swept the legs right out from under 'em. Transport 8004's the worst, having fallen right on top of Bessie before she drilled her way through its back end, crippling it forever. Transport 8005's lucky; she only fell on one side, snapping a wing in the process.

"Maggie?" Voice echoes like I'm yelling into a tin can. "Maggie May?"

Alarms still sound in the distance, and the softly crackling fires where Bessie chewed something volatile and spat out flame; they're here and there on the hangar floor, patchy between the limbs 'n' cargo and stuff I can't identify as either or. Even with the sprinkler system everything's ablaze and smoking. The thickening atmosphere and fine mist of the extinguishers give the scene an unreal quality, like I'm still asleep in my cell and wading into a dream.

But the dark things live only in my head. 8005's loading ramp's been deployed; the whole ship's keeled over and the tip of the ramp digs some way at an angle like a needle from one of them music machines from the _really _old movies. That kind plays songs from black discs through some kind of long-forgotten magic; the song this one plays is one of great foreboding, a grandiose sweeping soundtrack scoring D.P.'s descent into mystery.

"Maggie May? You in there?" Bit by bit, eyes adjust to the dark. Back of the ship yawns open; there _is_ some kind of lighting inside, something undarkened by Bessie's black fury, but it's soft and it's dim and don't help me see none. Brace my good foot on the ramp, make sure the whole kaboodle won't fall no further. Last thing I need's to be crushed under, well, _anything_.

Something falls, scaring the bejeezus out of me. Just a coil of cable, not a snake, not a noose. I s'pose she could be in 8004, crushed and burnt and drilled through and dead. Ready for transit, she could be anywhere. Papers unsigned, she could be anyplace.

But no, she has to be here. Ridges, steps in the ramp that once helped cargo lifers gain traction. They're skewed at an angles-_everything's _skewed at an angle-and I've heard from folks further travelled that out on the ocean you gotta have sea-legs.

But this sickness, this fear in the pit of my stomach ain't got nothing to do with the pitch of the waves. Even the masked things swim away, hang back, still grinning.

The low blue lights are too soft to make anything out. They throw shadows like a toddler throws toys. Some bulbs blink; some don't; all are attached to all manner of high-end technical Hyperion this-and-thats. This is, after all, a spaceship, one with just enough power to break Pandora's atmosphere and reach one of Jack's H-stations in orbit. Where would a spaceship be without its blinking lights?

But this one don't just house lights, but a shadow play also. Here comes the hero (_am not!)_ seeking his maiden fair _(is not!)_ and now's the time to tell: will there be a happy ending, or is today's performance a tragedy?

Robot leg's loud as shit on the floor. No blood or gore here, but cold coffee stains and playing cards, that's a different matter. Had to guess, whole crew ran like hell soon as they heard Breeg . Dumbasses should have flown the coop 'stead of taking arms to repel the invaders. Way the hangar floor's decorated with burning body parts you can guess how well that went.

But.

They left something behind.

Seats for the pilot and co-pilot up front. Benches with double-breasted seat-straps to hold personnel in place. 8005's a multi-purpose transport unit, taking people and cargo wherever they need to be. Usual assortment of crates stacked to the sides, magnetic security deployed to hold 'em fast during take off. Open one of the small ones just to keep my hands busy as I steadfastly ignore the damned elephant in the room. Credits, weapons, grenades inside.

But who gives a shit about that?

'Cause it's the size of a coffin, the elephant, a gleaming white trunk 'bout seven feet long with a fancy sliding mechanism makes the thing open like a flower. The switches on the side, the monitor, read-out-none of it makes any sense.

But the contents label, that blue strip of alphanumerics containing almost too many letter Ms . . .

I know that one, just as I know which catches will make this flower bloom in the dark.

Hiss of gas escaping, and the whole room lights up bright as a flashbang. See her face peaceful and at ease, just before comes to, whooping for air, and with a hacking cough throws up all over my shoes.

Pale blue eyes and hair the colour of straw.

"Easy now. Easy there."

Mouth opens. Closes. Eyes dart, and then she's trying to burrow through the walls of the stasis pod. Somehow these things look even more menacing when laid out like this, with a person in 'em. You'd think they'd be worse when attached to some hulking Loader firing laserbeams at your head. Looking back it seems almost comical, whereas this thing's so _innocuous,_ it's horrifying.

Reach over, try to help her out.

She shies away like I was trying to grab her throat. "_Nuh . . ._" she says, voice thick, disoriented. "You . . . you get the hell away."

"Maggie May, it's _me! _Good ol' D.P."

But she keeps slapping my hands, keeps scrabbling at the pristine and unforgiving interior of her coffin, and the lights keep on blinking and the boom of distant destruction keeps on booming, and it's not 'til I grab her wrists and pull her into my arms that she quietens, still shaking, crying as best as she can.


	15. Chapter 15: Follow the Glow

**15.**

**Follow the Glow.**

Her voice comes back before her tears do. Effects of the pod, I guess. Tear ducts dry up.

"They gotta be here." Picking over crates, spilling credits with a clatter. Once upon a song I'd be right down there after it. Where free money's concerned D.P. ain't too proud to beg.

But right now, with the corners of Maggie May's eyes dry and furious red, cash seems awful extraneous.

She paws through on hands and knees, throws credits and explosives aside with equal vigour. Wince every time a grenade hits the floor, bounces, rolls, falls along the slanted floor and down the ramp to the hangar.

"You, uh, wanna be more careful? Or at least, tell D.P. what yer lookin' for. I could help."

"They ain't primed," she says. Pushes hair behind an ear. Hands tremble as she brandishes three flasks, taking 'em out from under her arm. "But these is. Take one 'fore I drop 'em all."

Thing's got heft. Length of my forearm an' twice as thick, it's so shiny it reflects my own face, long, wide and alien as a funhouse mirror. I slip it into an ammo satchel from one of the boxes, first emptying the bullets.

"Gonna tell me what this is?"

"You _do_ know where we is, D.P.? You said this was Nakayama's ship?"

"So?"

"So this is a cloning research vessel, a weaponised, jet-propelled, highly mobile laboratory. An' _this?"_ She takes another tube, passes it back. "This is a cryogenic containment canister containin' samples of my DNA. Dammit, there should be five of these."

"_DNA? _Like, they makin' a copy of you?

"Yes. No. It's complicated-'an presently I don't have time nor inclination to go into whys and wherefores."

Complicated. Sure. "Well where's Loggins? Where's your baby?"

She pauses mid-rummage. "Junior is . . . I don't know where they took him. An' as for that P.O.S. Loggins, y'ever had a guy friend kept thinking of himself as your boyfriend? Dude was _way _too keen."

"So you dumped him? Like, you let him down gently, piece by piece, told him thanks but no thanks?"

"No, D.P. I shot him." She lets out a shriek, throws her hands in the air. "It ain't here. _God!_ Next opportunity, I'm gonna kill that backstabbing sumbitch. You said you came here with friends-where are they?"

Her words rattle out like bullets from a Vladof. With so many, it takes a moment fer me to discern their meaning, by which point she's already turning away. Forehead's got a mean, sweaty sheen to it, exasperation burning so bright it might was well be incendiary.

"Y-You need to slow on down, Maggie May. I know you been in cryo, got a lot of life to catch up on. But I'm havin' trouble understanding a damned thing you just say'."

She leans down low, propping herself up on her elbows. Half the boxes are empty by now. Contents that hasn't rolled away stands ankle deep.

It's a mutter when she says it, but even 'gainst the distant wailing sirens and cool beeping of the ship it's still loud enough to hear. "I _shot_ him, D.P." she says. "You ain't careful, I'll shoot your ass, too."

Now _here's _a helluva thing. Maybe it's been too long since me and Maggie May last tangoed, just long enough for me to misremember her acerbic nature. I mean, I'd just about forgotten how the first time I clapped eyes she went and shot me square between 'em.

Or after several days on the road with Breeg an' his boys maybe I'm tired of being pushed around, yelled at, _shot _at, for that matter. Bad enough the dark thing's always giving orders. No I gotta deal with threats from . . . from _her?_

So I square up my chest, roll back my shoulders, hold tight to the canisters that contain some part of her and try to look her square in the eye.

"You listen up, Maggie May" I says. "Life ain't like dandelions. Sure, it kin get on your nerves, but you can't just blow it all away. More to the point, without me you'd still be Sleeping Beauty in there. I don't see anyone else comin' to your rescue, and I sure as hell don't see anyone else putting up with what you just said to me." I point to the cryo-coffin which without its host, looks more like a big-ass gun locker. "Now I ain't so dumb as to demand an apology. Anyone can see you ain't wired that way. But don't treat me like a fly you just can't swat away."

"I won't be beholden," she says, something fierce. "Just 'cause you did me one, don't think I owe you no favours. That's the way of the world: folks do you a kind turn, they think they own you."

"Hey now, you was the one first rescued _me!_ I got caught up in this whole shebang-and sure, maybe that was your fault an' all. But when them military folks showed up with their turrets and hand cannons, you didn't have to pull my grits outta the fire but you did. If anything, I owed _you _the favour. But now I know how you feel 'bout it, I guess we're just about square."

She at least has the decency to look chastened. Them crates might be stripped clean, but she's still digging through 'em, or pretending to. "Just don't want you gettin' no big ideas 'bout what's what. _I_ know what's what. An' that _was_ my way of apologisin', case you missed it."

"Then I guess I accept it." Tell the truth, the wind's been knocked out my sales. Always do feel a little lost after arguments. "So. Does this mean we're still, uh . . ."

"Friends?" Glimmer of a smile, teeth a little crooked. Wherever it was hidden, she's found the last cryo-tube, and gives it a little shake.

I was gonna say _We still cool?_ but I'll take what I get.

"Yeah. Friends."

She nods for a while, and runs her tongue up under her lip and 'cross her teeth like she's considering sayin' somethin' else. In the end though, she just sticks out a hand for me to pull her to her feet.

Can't say I don't wonder what that '_somethin' else'_ was, but I can wait. Best if we can find Breeg _post haste _anyways, 'fore his death march kills us all.

Ship's power recovers en route to engineering. _Terminus_ is a Hyperion vessel so it makes sense; with the damage done it ain't gonna be at full power but there's always other routes, and bypasses, kinda thing that keeps a ship afloat even under fire.

I laugh nervously. Should be feeling foolish now the lights is on, but I still got this sense of dread, no doubt accentuated by the dark things in my skull. "Will you look at that? For a second there I thought we was gonna ditch."

Limping, still weak from cryo, she nudges aside a boot with its toe blown out. We ain't movin' too fast. She just about collapsed when trying to get down the ramp, but she refuses to lean on my shoulder as support. A shotgun from the transport makes a decent crutch. One hell of a looker, she is, fancy, high-class military ordinance.

The boot still has a bit of a foot inside. A bright splinter of shinbone pokes out to say hello. "This bandit friend of yours really did some job on these soldiers," she says. "I'm surprised. Didn't have you down as socialisin' with murderers."

"Oh, me an' Breeg ain't been this friendly in years, but needs must, as Momma used to say."

"What about your other friends? We likely to run into any serial, or gruesome alien thingamagjigs with teeth that come right out their jaws?"

"No, nothin' like that. Mightn't think it to look at me, handsome sumbitch that I am, but I don't really got too many buddies. Womenfolk though! 'Fore my pad burned down they was beatin' at my door."

She laughs a little, hoists herself along on the shotgun. Fine pair we make: her limp as a lamb, me with my shonky bionic leg. "Fancy yourself a real lady's man, huh?"

"Of course! You _seen_ this face? Oil painting is what it is. Why, even my nose constitutes a bona fide work of art."

Which only makes her laugh harder.

"What's so funny?"

She rolls her eyes, turns to the left. We can feel the engines rumbling; even if we weren't following the wall signs it'd be hard to take the wrong path. "Nothin'. Just that, well, you got a funny concept of confidence."

"How so?"

"First you tell me you got no friends, then you tell me gals be throwin' themselves at you. And with the way you be lookin' . . ."

Stop up short. She hobbles on a step or two before noticing. "You're sayin' there's something wrong with my face?"

"No, D.P. I didn't mean a thing. I mean-I was out of order. It's the sleep fog. Could truly do with some firebean coffee right now, how 'bout you?"

"No, I'm ugly, is what you was sayin'. An' maybe I am. Maybe not all of us gets to be models an' movie stars like you is-"

"Now _you're_ out of order!"

"-but my heart is in the right place an' that's what matters most."

"Your _heart?_ After what you just said to me?" She spits on the floor, casts the crutch aside. It's like one of the stories from my old church days, a God-given miracle.

The gun discharges as it hits the floor, making us jump. A blue-white beam of energy ricochets off down the corridor.

She recovers first, with the thing still bouncing off the walls like it's running scared. "I know what I said and I was . . . I was wrong. But I don't know what you think you know 'bout ladies-hell, I don't know what you think you know about _the whole damned human race_-but you don't _never _tell an ugly girl she's anything but out of spite. In plain fact, do me a _huge _favour and don't mention my face at all. I don't even want you to look at me."

I could say a million things about the way she looks right now. There's a line from one of them old movies I used to be so fond of: _You're beautiful when you're angry._

And yes sir, she is. High colour in her cheeks, an' her hair tossed back and forth as she gesticulates. Oh, she's angry all right, though over what it's hard to tell. Don't know who this ugly girl she thinks I been talkin' to is. Only girl I been speakin' to of late's Miss Ellie, and she's pretty as a sunbeam.

In truth, I don't know how to respond, what to say; only that I'm just about to say _something_ when a gun barrel leveled at our heads pokes 'round the corner. Thing like that'll put a dampener on your rejoinders.

I recognise the guy holding the gun. Bartholomew's one of them skinny dudes, all spit an' sinew. Got himself a nice crop of hair shaved into a mohawk, 'cept when you get close you see the hair's all capacitors nailed right into his scalp. He's also got this medallion that, well, some folks wear lucky rabbits feet-I don't know which animal the paws on his chest come from, but they're knotted to a the twine round his neck an' leave greasy yellow marks on his vest when he stabs the air with his gun. Claws on the end of those things are so sharp, they look like fangs.

""Whoah, Bartholomew, it's me! Breeg's buddy?"

After a second he lowers the gun, spits on the floor. "Ayah, the cowardy! Slow 'n' cowardy meatboy. Bring us a tasty, didja?"

"Uh, not exactly. This here's Maggie May. She's under the Warlord's protection too."

"Och, the _Warlord's_ tasty. Barty sees."

In spite of the imminent danger she ain't exactly shying away from him. She mutters something hard to catch, deliberately looking away from me.

Bartholomew licks his scarred and purple lips. "Dis way, den. Breeg'll see the cowardy, and the tasty. Good work, we done! Many kills, much stuff-blows-up. Hurry now! Follow, or-"

"_Attention."_

The voice comes from everywhere. At first I wonder if it's in my head, 'til I see Bartholomew glancing at the ceiling, Maggie May looking up from her sulk.

"_Oh my! Do I really sound like that? Ma-ma-ma. Mi-mi-mi. Letty licks lolly litter. Gosh-I really thought I had more of a baritone. Anyway, enough tomfoolery! This is Gerald Nakayama of the H.S.S. Terminus. I'm assuming Captain Hades is dead, as, well, you bandits don't exactly have a reputation for leaving people alive, do you? In his absence I will be captain and pilot of this science vessel, and I think you as my passengers should know, I have precisely zero experience doing either. If anything remains of the Terminus' former crew other than body parts and squishy bits of viscera, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for your service and dedication. As a reward I have inputted a course correction into the ship's computer that will take us somewhere balmy and tropical, so that we might all take vacation. I'm sure you as well as I will consider this MIA time well-deserved. It is so very taxing being beaten, shot at, burned alive, etcetera etcetera."_

The pause that follows is just long enough for me and the still-extremely-pissed Maggie May to exchange a look. "Wha-?" she manages, before the loudspeakers blare once more.

"_Now, the blasted navi-comp tells me that one of our engines is out of order, so there's a teensy chance we might be flown into the side of a mountain. In case of disaster, I will relinquish control of the Terminus to whomever wishes to do the honourable thing and go down with the ship. I have a jetpack here that should spirit me to safety, as well as an overnight bag containing my toothbrush and a trunkful of clean underwear, so don't you worry about me._"

Barty's aimed his gun at the ceiling, and stares wide-eyed, looking for something to shoot.

But me? I'm more concerned about that possiblly impending conjunction between space ship and mountainside. I hobble forward, and even though she pulls it away, grab Maggie May's wrist.

"_The countdown to in-atmosphere starjump should commence shortly. In the meantime, here's a little song I wrote about our glorious leader Handsome Jack, performed in the key of A. Now, where's my harmonica?"_

There's a short period of silence, during which a dumbfounded Maggie May tries to wrestle out of my grasp.

Then comes a harmonica blast so loud it makes the speakers distort, which just happens to coincide with another ominous explosion from the rear of the ship. The lighting flickers off and the emergency lights come back on, painting the corridor in shades of blood.

That's when the-and Lord knows there has to be better word for this-_singing_ starts.

"_Oh Handsome Jack, Handsome Jack,_

_I always know you'll have my back._

_Please cast your shadow 'cross the lands_

_And Touch me places with your hands_

_Oh Handsome Jack, Handsome Jack,_

_I will bake you tasty snacks._

_If you like boobs I'll grow a rack._

_I love you Handsome Jack."_

Even though we're right next to each other I can barely hear Maggie May over Nakayama's singing. Her hands are over her ears, her weakened frame half doubled over.

"What in _Hell's taint_ is that?" she yells.

There's another explosion, and a mounting feeling of dread rumbles up through my legs. Mad as an acorn Nakayama might be, but he sure as hell wasn't lying when he said we was on a collision course.

This time she lets me take her arm. "C'mon. Let's find Breeg and get the hell off this crazy horse."

We find him in engineering. They're all there, all the bandits who survived the journey up. Some are trying to disengage Bessie from a tangle of pipework. Some are shooting into the stardrive-even over Nakayama's tuneless humming and scattershot approach to on-the-fly lyricism we hear their gunfire long before we reach what was once an airlock foor. _Shafted_ is how I'd put it now. Bessie's had her fill of it; only a plexiglass framework remains. If there was a breach and one of them scientific reactor particles were to escape into the ship's atmosphere we'll all be coughing up cancer for you can find a word rhymes with _masculine._

Breeg's amongst them, Fire-Fuhrer in his arms. Longer'n Maggie May's crutch, quadruple barreled and an axe blade for a bayonet, she's the kind of weapon'd fetch more on the black market than any amount of Besty's and Donna's put together. SHe's firing as we hobble in, Breeg keeping her steady on the back of an arm with more burns and scars than skin.

"Blarggh!" he says, waving.

Gout of flame engulfs the reactor's protective siding. Already it's white hot, causeing after-images to hang in the air. Half the side's melted; the honeycombed mega-alloy's strong, but it ain't _that_ strong.

This particular drive comprises of a series of upended twenty-foot barrel reactors connected with flow-vents and coolant tubes. Two of 'em've been torn through-before Nakayama engaged the engine, thank God. Bessie's back-end is sticking out a third like a bear in a honey jar.

But the reactor, the power behind the drive, is a mean-looking cube of sheer black evil. One of its former corners is puddled and steaming on the floor. _Fire-Fuhrer _licks at it like a bat at a wound.

Breeg's having a _hell_ of a time.

"What're you _doing?" _

I storm up best as my leg'll let me. Some kind of heat blistering my skin as I get close. Can't tell if it's flame or radiation; either way, let's say it's helping with my tan. With an eye on the nozzles spraying hellfire but not with as much caution as I ought to exert, I grab this arm.

Muscles move, steel cables brought to life.

And he bats me a way like I was a mosquito, lets go of the trigger, and turns the gun on me.

Air shimmers around the four barrels. "Blarggh!"

He split my lip with his backhand, and the metal floor didn't treat my keister too good neither. Bartholomew and the others are enjoying the show. Maggie May, well, God only knows what's going through her head. She's leaned on her reclaimed crutch, slumped against the wreck of a wall just where the doorway curls like Bessie tried to perm it.

The reactor throbs malevolence, metal _pinking_ as it cools. Every now and then Nakayama's muttered idiocy pierces the low, slow _vwoorp_ of the alarm.

"God _damn_ it, Breeg, that's all that's keeping us afloat." I point at the reactor, My finger wavers. "You keep on firin' like that, you gonna irradiate us at best, blow the ship to dust at worst."

He looks at _Fire-Fuhrer, _and brushes a fleck of smut from between the upper barrels. His knuckle hair singes_, _its incandescent ends leaving tiny trails of smoke.

"Blarggh."

"Well _I _care. Maggie May cares. I'm sure you men over there care, too. Now, we need to get planetside, quick. The crazy sumbitch declarin' himself captain, he's gonna crash the _Terminus_ into a hillside and kill us all." Stumble to my feet, servos whirring. Fire, sirens, smoke, sweat. Bloodshots gawping like they've forgotten what got 'em here in the first place. "We need to evacuate, all of us. There's a transport ship back in the cargo bay. The landing gear's shot, but I guess you already know that. If we hurry, we can take off now, before the shit hits the fan. We can worry 'bout landing when it comes to it."

"Blarggh."

"No, the real captain's dead. The dude you hear recitin' sonnets over loudspeaker's crazy as a shitbird."

He takes a step forward, thumbs the sigil for _warlord_ tattooed in ash over his breastbone. "_Blarggh."_

"Oh, so _you're_ the captain now?"

"Blarggh."

"Well then, Captain Breeg sir, with the greatest of respect an' all that _bull-hockey_, on behalf o' your crew and kin I request we all, with great expedience, _get the hell off this boat."_

"Blarggh."

He looks grim now, far grimmer than he ever did as a boy talking about tribal duty, what it means to be a man.

_Though there _is _something familiar about it, isn't there?_ whispers the leader of the swimming things. _Recognise it, sport? You _should.

"What's he sayin?" says Maggie May, voice 'bout as quiet as her face is pale.

"He's _sayin'_, as captain, that what I'm suggestin' sounds like the words of a mutineer." I lick my lower lip, nervous like. Is it my imagination or are them Bloodshots who were tending to Bessie moving closer? "He's _sayin'_ that on his ship mutineers walk the plank. Breeg, all I wanna do is get us to safety." I address the bandits behind him, the ones closing in on me. "You fellers don't want to go down with the ship, right? Y'all want to have babies, procreate, live good long lives?"

I realise my mistake soon as it leaves my lips. Problem is I'm still thinking Breeg as my buddy from back home, and of the Bloodshots as his new pals, human as you or me.

Problem is, I mistook them for proper folk.

"Barty? Arlo? Arlo, surely your pappy'd want you to survive? Surely he'd want you to carry on yer family name."

The way the advancing crowd laughs sounds leery as hell.

"Blarggh."

My heart sinks.

"What'd he say?" says Maggie May.

"He said Arlo killed and ate his Pappy when he was fourteen. He says he tasted like shit."

Maybe it's 'cause they're mutated, more muscle than brain; or maybe it's some racial memory of greater injustice, killers imprisoned, prisoners made slaves. A dozen lifetimes on Pandora'll make a soul degenerate. As Miss Ellie put it, _How can you parlay with that?_

Definitely advancing. Closing the hell in.

"Blarggh."

"What'd he say _now?"_

_There is is, _whispers the dark thing. _Now we're cooking. Do you remember, sport? Does any of that ring a bell?_

But what Captain Breeg said didn't make no sense. Maybe that's why I ain't running as I should be, as he and his tribe of skag-shit jackals come closing in for the kill.

"Hell," says Maggie May. "You kin translate for me later."

And that's when she lifts her crutch, pulls the trigger, and sends Bartholomew to bandit heaven.


	16. Chapter 16: Up High, Down Low

**16.**

**Up High, Down Low.**

So we get the jump on them.

_Boom,_ goes the crutch-and understand, 'fore we intercepted it was part of a consignment en route to Hyperion soldiers as _military spec hardware_. Sure, Fire-fuhrer's been passed generation to generation, modified by the gunsmoked fingers of tribal craftsfolk fightin' skags an' rakk 'fore my kin even made it planetside. Ain't state of the art, but with that much history it don't have to be. Every one of Breeg's ancestors put their own lick of paint onto it, their own tweak, their own private touch.

It kills. That's what it does.

But this crutch? It _is _state of the art. Breeg's gun has all that tribal history but this one has the whole history of _war_ burning in its belly. When commandants got greedy and armies got smart, when interstellar warfare evolved into intercorporation 'disputes', when acquisitional armed forces clashed with robot armies and everyone fought for a goddamned percentage, that's when the _real_ fun began.

I said the gun went off when Maggie May had herself a hot temper; that was true. I also said the shot ricocheted down the corridor causing a helluva ruckus; also true.

We'd've done a little more than _just duck_ if we'd seen its true potential. Aim at a lump of inert metal, sure, it'll tear it apart like any shotgun, but the only thing metallic 'bout Bartholomew is the decorative bayonet dangling from his left ear.

Maggie pulls the trigger; gun makes a noise. Rising tone, starts so low I feel it in my butt.

Then, like a microwave, it pings and a tiny voice says "_Target acquired_".

Ever slow on the uptake a couple Bloodshots raise _their_ weapons. Before either shoot Maggie's gun explodes and all that's left of Barty is that bayonet tinkling on the reactor room floor.

No body. No bits. Damn thing zapped him out of existence.

"_Too easy!_" says the gun. "_Give me another."_

The bandit who was trying to dislodge Bessie from the drive goes to throw a hatchet at Maggie May. Some of these bandits are dead-eyes with throwing knives. They hurl with precision, take off limbs, digits and tops of heads from yards away.

This one doesn't, though. By the time he's winding up to let go both he and the axe no longer exist.

"_Bingo!"_ says the gun, eager as a hamster down a buttcrack. "_Again, again!"_

I s'pose you could say they spring into action, only like Claptrap's clockwork they're all kinds of bust. The ones with the guns disappear first; the others-including my good friend Arlo-disappear next. Soon the only one left is Breeg. Judging from the whites of his eyes through the oles in his mask he's just as dumb-fucked as I am.

"Holy crap!" I says to Maggie. "You _melted_ 'em."

The gun points again, surveying the room.

"Ain't me!" says Maggie May. "Thing's got a life of its own."

"You're the one shooting!"

"It's shootin' itself!

"Then _drop_ it!"

"_I can't!"_

"_Target acquired,"_ says the gun. "_Ooh, I'm having so much fun!"_

Instant before it blows him away, Breeg finds my skinny shoulder buried in his mid-section. Ordinarily it'd be like charging Sanctuary's walls, but my robot limb's just enough to knock him off balance and power on through. Fire-fuhrer falls with a mighty _clunk,_ and together we fall out of sight behind a stack of pipes.

The Hyperion gunshot flies close overhead, hits the half-melted reactor, bounces harmlessly off.

"_Nuts!_" says the gun. "_Try again-I think I see the tops of their heads."_

Maggie May's voice comes from somewhere behind as Breeg unceremoniously shoves me off him. "Fer the love of God, stay down 'til I kin pacify this thing!"

The gun tuts, voice tinny through its speaker. "_A little thanks for saving your bacon would be nice! I don't know if you were paying attention but those were hostiles I discombobulated."_

"I don't wanna hear it! You just shut your . . . whatever it is you're speaking from-and power down, go into sleep mode or whatever. I don't want to hear from you."

"_Shutdown sequence engaged,"_ the thing sneers. "_But there's always another hostile that needs annihilating. You'll be back."_

With a sad-sounding beep and a whir that reminds me of certain extremities drooping in awkward situations, it switches off and doesn't make a peep.

For a second there's the sound of three souls breathing heavy.

Then Nakayama's voice fills the abyss. "The _Terminus_ registers gunfire in her rear section. Are you _killing_ each other back there?"

Breeg rolls away, pulls himself to his feet. The reactor scalds his hand; smells like chitlins.

Nakayama continues: "I hope not; we're _so close _to the drive sequence being complete. I would have completed it earlier but there was the matter of that problematic fourth verse-art, am I right?" He laughs, nervous-like, as Breeg darts behind the reactor in search of his gun. "Anywho, we're back on track and raring to go. If any of you are still alive-and my recital will require an audience so I very much hope you are-I'd advise you to _hold onto your breeches._ I have an inkling this is going to be a bumpy ride."

Everything hurts, not just my head and my gut where Breeg threw me off but everything either side and everything in between. Just getting to my feet when Breeg reappears, gunless and roaring as he charges around the other side of the reactor. _Fire-fuhrer's _right behind me, and her owner wants her back.

Maggie May steps a couple wobbly steps forward brandishing her crutch right under Breeg's nose. Her eyes is crazed. Her voice wavers. "Not so fast, 'less you want some more. I ain't afraid to off another one of you. I ain't afraid, and Lord knows, gun wants it."

I get between them, holding 'em back. Hurts to even breath.

"Let's just everybody _calm down_," I says. "We _really _gonna kill each other 'fore the good professor does it for us?"

Breeg glances at his gun, folds his arms. "Blarggh!"

"Hey, I saved your life-and right as you was 'bout to do for me."

"Right," says Maggie May. "An' don't think he'll be doin' it twice. This here gun's got a mind of its own, an' I kin tell you: it _hates_ bandits."

"Blarggh."

"What did Big Boy say? No, don't tell me, D.P. Don't think I care for his tone."

She might be bluffing as she raises the gun, though with Maggie May it's hard to tell. Shove the barrel aside anyways; thing's hot as hell, bound to leave a mark.

"Listen, _both_ of you! One way or another, we gotta get off this ship. Breeg, you're welcome to come with us."

"Welcome? Is he hell!"

"Blarggh!"

"_Pipe down._ You want to stay, that's your prerogative. But I'd highly advise against . . ."

"Blarggh."

The look in his eyes cuts me. Hate. _Old_ hate.

He could always say a lot with a little. A gesture here, an expression there. Even with his face covered, to me Breeg's always been perfectly eloquent.

So let me tell you, the thing he said with all that hate? It don't make no sense. I see he meant it, every garbled goddamned syllable, but there ain't no sense there there, there ain't no reckoning.

All there is is madness.

"Well, then. If that's the way you feel. What 'bout you, Maggie May?"

"Like y'even have to ask." She trains the gun on Breeg, right past my nose. "Go, D.P. I'll watch our backs, case your friend gets any ideas."

Best not to look back, I know. Big dude's haunched down like a beast caught in an industrial nightmare. Reactor, engines, all them computers round the place, regulatory valves, viewing windows, coolant levels, everything bathed bloody in emergency lighting. Bessie's stopped feeding at her trough, sits there, not even idling. Whatever weapons the bandits had are scattered like someone carried too big an armful and dropped 'em one by one. One's even fallen at the centre of a zero painted white; don't know its significance, but damn it if, with the light 'n' all, it don't look like the bayonet thrusting into a still-beating heart.

Best not to look back, but I do it anyways.

Then I pick up my pace and with Maggie May behind limp straight for the cargo bay.

Had a book in my collection depicting places of worship. Mosques, synagogues, temples, churches. Always struck me how different they was to our chapel. I mean, we rebuild it every time bandits came, but the pastor always kept the same blueprint. No need for embellishment, he said. Decoration was a sin.

Weren't always the way, that's for sure. Gilted prayer halls. Sistine frescoes. Some places of worship wore drab stone on the outside, but sparkled within like geodes.

For a young kid marveling over the wonders of the old world, one picture stood out. But for gargoyles in the gutters and windows full of coloured glass it wasn't _too _fancy. But the _size _of that thing! You gotta understand, ours contained only for a few dozen at most, and as our congregation dwindled even that seemed cavernous.

This hanger, the one we ran from and which we now found ourselves returning to is a _real_ cavern, and it ain't been built in the name of no God.

It's on fire, the floor's sinking like we're in a quake, we're some factor of a thousand feet in the Pandoran sky, and what's actually happening is the articificial gravity on board the _Terminus _has disengaged and the whole ship's listing sideways.

I imagine Nakayama in his office on one of them wheely chairs, having the time of his life. Every so often the loudspeaker says "_Whee!"_.

For folks who don't have the luxury of wheels and for whom walking-much less running-is increasingly a chore, a less-than-perpendicular floor presents something of a problem.

Then, as if we don't got enough to contend with, screeching an' shooting sparks transport 8004 starts sliding toward the entranceway just where we happen to be stood.

Maggie May shoves, an' when that ain't enough to dislodge D.P. kicks his bony ass. "_Move it."_

I do, scraping the slanted floor with outstretched fingers, Maggie May doing likewise. Must look like a couple skags clawin' our way to freedom, feet skittering on ground that's increasingly _acute._

One of 8004's wings gets torn by friction but she keeps on barreling in pieces to smash through the doorway and into to the corridor beyond. The forcefield that's all that's between us and the whipping, howling wind evaporates as the genny's smushed. Atmospheric discrepancies throw all unmoored debris into a single storm force clusterfuck. Loose limbs, splintered metal, mooring cables, fire extinguishers all get tossed out of the ship and into the slipstream. Locker doors come unlatched spilling tools, overalls, hard hats, personal effects to be sucked out after them. Even Maggie May's hair's caught up in the dance, not to mention our clothes whipping against our bodies, longing to be free.

"Keep moving!" She pushes me further toward the maelstrom; 'bout to say it seems like a hella bad idea when I see what she's pushing me out the way _of_.

Transport 8005 is chasing after its brother.

I grab onto her wrist. "That's our ride!"

Angry as a bee in a bell she snatches it away, tries to tame the hair snarling across her face. "Then we find another! How'd you get up here? We'll take that one."

"We _can't!_" Stride into the storm, wetting in my lips nervous-like. Wind makes 'em cold as frost. "It's this one, or we're dead."

8005's still got landing gear so it slides slower than its brother. Undercarriage on VTOL craft's good like that-they land, they stay put-but with the _Terminus_ tilting who knows how long we got 'til something breaks and the remaining gear collapses?

If we're to get out of here, I gotta do something reckless.

There's an old story from Earth-that-was about an unsinkable ship. Under a winter-moon it met an iceberg and went under, all hands lost.

The ramp down which I helped Maggie May some fifteen minutes yawns, approaching, and the ship appears in my head just as immense and vivid as the picture in _The Astonishing History of the Twentieth Century._

Name eludes me-just for a second-'fore popping to mind like a life preserver on icy waves.

This is the Titanic. I am the iceberg.

An' she takes my hand and we stand tall, and when the time comes we crouch, we jump.

Ramp catches me in the shin. As well as being lowered it's extended on rails that hold the ramp bed in place. One smacks my bionic leg, putting one hell of a ding in it, sending shockwaves through my head like I was caught in a church bell on Sunday.

Maggie May screams, but there's more jubilation than pain so I guess she's okay. She hangs onto the grill of the ramp by her and climbs elbow over elbow like she's back on the H.A.A.F. assault course. She only looks back when she notices I ain't following. It ain't just my leg that's a problem; where the artificial femur's dented some the wiring's malfunctioned, making my robot toes curl up and lock in place. Like her I'm hooked onto the grill, but there ain't a damned thing I can do to dislodge myself.

She lies on her belly half-inside the transport, before turning around, and surveys the situation with and her lips screwed up in a tight, mean knot. Her crutch-her gun-pressed flush against the side of her leg. She looks from it to me with the transport still grinding towards the other side of the hanger, shooting sparks.

"Hell," she says. "Stuff this under yer crotch and hope in Hell's name it works."

Snap to like a good li'l soldier. She threads her long-ass shotgun 'tween me and the ramp, then pushes the butt down between my thighs 'til the barrel touches the cold aluminum alloy where my shinbone used to be.

And I can feel it: the wall looming behind me. Acid stains, pockmarks, burn marks, the joints in the fabrication of the hangar floor; I see 'em all through the grill, passing with increasing velocity as the ship's tilt worsens and 8005 slides fast. I'm gonna be squished, is what's gonna happen. I'm gonna be squished 'less Maggie May pulls this off.

And pull she does.

The shot-that orange ball of energy-hits my leg and ricochets. The corridor we was in when it went off by accidental was sturdy enough to take the force of the blast, but my bionic limb ain't braced against nothing but flesh and bone. It kicks back, pulling so hard at the tendons holding it place I can almost feel 'em snapping. There's a moment of pain makes me bite my tongue, then a complete lack of feeling from mid-thigh down.

If the gun says anything, I don't hear it.

With gun-blast after-echoes bouncing 'tween my ears Maggie May hauls me up off the ramp and hobbles toward the cockpit fast as she can drag. Behind, the ramp concertinas 'gainst the hangar wall, and the ship grinds to a halt.

It's a tortuous journey through piles of upset crates, ransacked gun lockers and Maggie May's cryo-tube to the console up front. Emergency lighting's still on, which I s'pose is a blessing. As we reach the front a constellation of flight control nicknacks twinkle into being like eyes waiting for our first misinformed move.

She dumps me in a chair with my leg still spasming like it's dancing a tattoo across on the flight lounge floor. Takes both hands to make it stop. Used to be there was a current running down my nerves to trigger the mechanism therein. Now the metal dangling from my kneecap is no use to man nor God.

She buckles herself in as primary pilot, pulls the chair along the console, stows the gun in a basket overhead for easy access. Flexes her fingers like a concert pianist. The controls wink, approvingly.

"Okay," she says. "Now what?"

"We fly."

"How?"

Gun's stock rattles against the end of the basket. Ship's tilting so sharp that Maggie May's hair danglings from her crown.

"Don't know. I ain't no pilot."

"I ain't either!"

"Your flew the buzzard well enough."

"That was _different_. There were much less . . ." She flaps frantically at the levers, touchscreens, toggle switches, steering column ". . . thingies."

"Din't you never fly one of these in your H.A.A.F. days?"

"I told you: I don't remember."

"You must remember _somethin'_. You remembered the name of that lobster guy, Veden."

"Don't you talk to me 'bout that double-crossin' shit stain. Shoulda known better than to trust his worthless ass again."

"_Again?"_

But her fingers are already curling round what—and remember, I ain't an automobile person—may or may not be a throttle. "Somethin' _is_ familiar," she says. "Feel like I been up here before. Not in the pilot's seat so much, but . . ."

There comes a creak from the back, deep and reverberating up through 8005. Seat's too tall to see around the headrest, and with the angle and my more immediate lack of balance I can't exactly lean out to see what's causing the commotion at the end of the vehicle.

I'll tell you something, though: chances are that ain't a good noise.

Maggie May moves in a trance, flicking switches one by one. With a hum, the screens glow brighter. A big-ass one wraps the front half of the cockpit, tinted orange and covered in all manner of warning signs. At the touch of a button the view immediately outside fragments to show side and rear views either side of the main display.

The back end of 8005s half-slid into the corridor right next to 8004. One of the wings caught on the wall, stopping a bulkhead from sealing the airlock. As the creak comes again I see the bulkhead try falling again, crumpling the wing just enough to ruck up in ripples in the metal like hot fudge on a sundae.

"_Shit,"_ she says, pressing controls in increasing desperation.

"Yeah, shit! Thing's stripping our wings like a mean kid on a sunny afternoon."

"Just shut up, okay? Maggie needs to concentrate."

Another creak, more _clicks_ and _beeps_. Emergency lighting dims in anticipation.

Finally she slams her hand on the console. "This ain't workin'. These things was meant to be driven by two people. On-board co-pilot shoulda kicked in by now; I guess the damage already knocked it out."

"So we'll fly it together. Tell me what to do"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure you'd _love _that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She looks at me, eyes narrowing some fierce 'fore relaxing. "I mean it ain't that simple. My reflexes ain't exactly pilot standard; co-pilot compensates for that with computational power. Wind-speed, direction, nuanced changes in weight distribution—which you might have noticed has gone to crap, by the way. Now I can get this bird in the air, but makin' her fly? Out of the question."

"So we're just gonna be defeatist and go down with the sinking ship. That it?"

"No need to be an asshole about it."

"What I tryin' to say is, you tell me we can't fly but _what choice do we have?_"

Way I say it catches her off-guard. Whole mess of time's passed since she and me hung out together. Whole mess of changes in her, in me. Sometimes—and maybe it's just my imagination—I reckon when she looks at me she's seein' somebody else.

Must remember to ask her who that someone is, once we get out of this.

"Okay," she says. "We'll do this. We're gonna crash—you and I both know that's coming-but we'll do it on _our_ terms."

"As proper folk," I says. "Only way anything worth doin' gets done."

Takes a complicated series of key presses and lever twists to get the jets in gear. She mutters the checklist like a mantra, stabbing fingers at the main screen as throughout the transport—and up into our spines—power builds. With the cargo doors still open and what remains of the cargo ramp still deployed it's louder than it ought to be. Even when she shuts the inner airlock, feels like it ain't enough to shut out Nakayama's off-key singing, the screaming winds outside the cargo bay, the low, tortured shriek as the right wing is torn rivet by rivet from the body of _Terminus_ transport 8005.

"Auto sequence negatory," she says. "Sound suppression nominal. Fuel level full—thank the Lord. Disabling traction locks. Inverting magnetic locking mechanism."

With a _chnnk _that woulda jolted me from my seat if my gravity harness hadn't been buckled, the ship falls sideways back against the far wall of the hangar. Wing lookis even sicker now; it tears a few more inches, screaming in pain.

"Secondary boosters: ignition."

The rumbling intensifies, loud enough to drown all the chaos whirling around us. For just a second my thoughts turn to my dearest friend Breeg, way down in engineering with only a purloined drilling machine and the memory of his tribe for company.

"Ailerons engaged. VTOL engines ignited. Landing gear—well, that's just 'bout fucked but let's pretend for a second it's being withdrawn."

Front of the ship lifts and my stomach flipflops. Feeling takes me way back—or it would've if I hadn't been swinging over the precipice of Squits Canyon mere days ago. I found Maggie May, just like Angel told me to. Whatever happens next is up to us.

"We're caught on something," she says "That goddamned crumpled wing. We take off now, we risk tearing the entire transport apart."

And she looks at me sidelong, grinning that sly, calculating, beautiful grin of hers before activating the final countdown. "But what choice do we have?"

I nod, and brace myself, and as whatever's left of the on-board computer pings out the final ten seconds she says: "Primary ignition engaged. Oh Jesus, here we go."

For just a second the _Terminus_ clings onto our rear section like it can't bear to let go.

Then we're thrown into our sets, gravity webbing constricts against g-force, the hanger speeds past in any and all directions and Pandora's sky welcomes us with open arms.


	17. Chapter 17: Contraband Sky Rocket

**17.**

**Contraband Sky Rocket.**

There is no direction in space.

Oh, there's gravity for sure. It's slight, and it'll pull on you, but every star, planet and asteroid exerts it, every speck of space dirt, every nebula and galaxy. In space, gravity pulls from all places, cancelling any sense of _down_ one might otherwise acquire.

The sky, on the other hand, the atmosphere of a planet, has a very definite sense of direction. There's up—which is the place you want your stolen transport vehicle that don't got no parachutes to stay—and then there's down, the place you don't want it to go, which is where it's heading at extremely high velocity.

It's storming on Pandora. Seems like the whole planet's pitching a fit, prob'ly mad we left the _H.S.S. Terminus _to carve itself a resting place somewhere in darkest Aegrus.

But maybe I misjudge my suppositions. Maybe it's just indifferent, and we just picked a bad goddamn day to bail the hell into her atmosphere.

As it happens, our ship is also directionless. Hyperion Transport 8005 looks like a shoebox with wings. There ain't no shoes inside 'cept the ones on our feet, and even then I only got one of each-a single shoe, a single foot-but our ship only has the one wing so I'd say we was evenly matched.

Everything's a rumble inside, the view on the front screen's been shut down on account of it being far too depressing, and with Maggie May unable to keep us out of a stomach-sickening down-spiraling death roll that roils anything not mag-locked in place like flakes in a snowglobe I can't tell fer certain my rights from my ups, my lefts from my diagonals.

Far as I can tell, best way to discern up from down is to wait till we hit something solid. Once we're splattered on the ground 'n' shit ain't nobody needs a spirit level to tell which way's down.

"Hate to break it to you," says Maggie May through gritted teeth. She's got one hand on one doohickey, another on another and both're squeezin' so tight looks like her knuckles might pop off. "I know we got some unresolved tensions, but this downward trajectory, don't think we're gonna have much of a happy landing."

"Anything I can do?" Knowing there ain't. I can't fly a Hyperion transport anymore than I can dance the fandango. Heck, last thing I drove was Crazy Eddie's car, and this ain't no mobile piece of art.

Miss Ellie was here, she'd know what to do. Miss Ellie's always been great with machines, got real knack of talking to 'em. Way she tracked Earl, not to mention having the tolerance of a saint to deal when interacting with Claptrap. She'd get the autopilot up and running for sure.

_Now now, sport. Don't you go all weak and wistful on me._

Even when he's quiet, the meanest masked thing's always close. He's swimming up now, peering through my eyes and whispering in my ear . . . and don't I know his name?

"_Jack."_ Word comes 'fore I can bite my tongue.

"Yeah, jack." says Maggie May. "Ain't nothing either of us can do. S'pose we could shoot ourselves, make it quick." She laughs, quick and humourless, then knuckles herself on the forehead. "_Think_ Maggie. Always a way out. Always a way back to him."

_Ooh, she's smart. I like your new pal, sport, though I feel like we should have been introduced a long time ago. Do me a favour and look at her for a moment, won't you? I mean, not at her face-I've seen dogmeat with more personality-but a guy could do things to a body like that, don't you agree? _We _could do things to a body like that._

Words like that rattling in my head, Maggie May's absolutely right: I should take her talking shotgun and use it to clean my mind.

But it's like my eyes is on the end of his fingers. All he needs to do is point.

_Oh yeah. Face like a mule but that off-colour jumpsuit can't contain those curves. Nothing like a woman with muscle, don't you agree, sport? When you're not sticking it to those sexdolls of yours, I mean._

"Maggie May," I says. How close are we to the ground? How long 'til a desert or mountain range hits, and my one good foot is pressed mercifully through the front of my head? "Do you believe in possession? Do you believe an evil spirit can grab hold your soul 'n' refuse' to let go?"

Tell myself I ain't gonna look. It's my body, not his.

_But you can't help it, can you? You freaky-looking son of a bitch, if you want her let me take over. Whatever you can't do, I can_.

"If there's evil souls," she says. "There's gotta be good ones, too. An' if there such a thing as good an' evil I reckon we must be somewhere in between. How'd you put it? _Proper folks."_

She lets go of the controls, slams her palms against the console. "_Damn it._" she says. "If I could remember, I could fly it. I'm _sure _I could. You try to do something good an' it all backfires. This ain't the way it's s'posed to _be._"

She don't reach for my hand-though decent or otherwise, part of me hopes she would-but she does grab the flasks I somehow managed to hold onto throughout everything. My seatbelt pins the strap of the satchel holding 'em to my shoulder. When she finds she can't tug 'em free she strokes 'em instead.

All the while, the dark thing inside me thunders.

"I tried to do the right thing," she says again, and it's as if in our final plummet there's a moment of serenity, a bubble that holds the ship. She speaks quickly, half to herself, worried at any moment the bubble will burst. "But I did a whole lot of bad along the way. I shot Loggins fer starters."

"Maggie-"

"He just these got funny ideas as to me bein' his property and how Junior should be raised. I didn't mean to kill him. I don't think I did, anyway."

"Maggie May, listen-"

"And do you know? He _proposed_ to me. Said he could get us all off-world but only if I was his betrothed. Course I turned him down. Had himself a meltdown, said I was lucky a catch like him was willing to raise my bastard child, 'n' after that . . ."

Don't know where it came from. Could be the dark thing, could be my life flashing before my eyes. Folks say dreams help make sense of your thoughts. Running out of w33d's kind of like waking up, I guess.

It started with the gun. I thought I'd blow my goddamned brains out, exorcise my demons once and fer all.

But the gun has a demon of its own.

I guess that's when it all comes together. Machines can't talk to me no more, but they sure as hell can talk to one another.

"Goddamn it, Maggie May. _There's an A.I. inside the damned gun._"

Takes all of a second for her to realise, grab it from the cage and plug the sucker into the IO socket. Longest second of my life, which seems even longer when a familiar voice rings out amongst the vibrato of the ship dropping like a stone.

"I _told you _you'd be back."

"Correct course!" blurts Maggie May. "For God's sake level us out."

"Oh sure. I can do that. But only if you ask nicely."

"What?"

The voice of the gun sounds almost morose. "This transport doesn't have much in the way of artillery. A couple lasers but nothing to write home about. It doesn't even have missiles. It's so sad; it'd be better off crashing."

"_Please._ _Please_ stop the dang ship before it crashes us into the planet."

An' like that the rumbling stops. The multitudinous instruments that moments before was going haywire turn green, registering the altitude at which 8005 is currently cruising.

Can't remember when I last ate, but I'm pretty sure that's my lunch spatterin' my shoulders.

"There," says the gun. "That wasn't too hard, was it? A little politeness is all I ask."

It reveals more about the state of our ship as we talk. Maggie May might've liberated it from the gunlocker, but knowing the means of our salvation was resting a little above her forehead all along's put her nose outta joint-or maybe she chooses not to speak 'cause our new A.I. co-pilot's an annoying sumbitch. Either way, the onus of our communication lies upon me.

"She's not in as poor a condition as she looks," the gun says, cheerful enough. "Rear left thruster's leaking coolant but the horizontal stabliser went the same way as your cargo mechanism so it's not like there's anything back there to overheat. Unless you count the engine itself, which is like, _pfft._"

It says the inertial dampeners were intact, which explains how our heads didn't 'splode when our downward spiral came to such an abrupt stop. "8005's current maneuverability is all down to her VTOL system. Slats and spoilers are in full working order, though you lost an aileron along with one of your wings. It isn't ideal, but between the flappy bits and the VTOL we have a modicum of lateral thrust. Honestly, you humans never do take enough care of your belongings."

Turns out the ship's A.I. actual ain't so much missing as disconnected. Gun devises a workaround, relays instructions. "I sweet-talked her into helping," it says. "Hyperion branded experimental weapons aren't usually much use in matters regarding aviation, but pick-up lines are my speciality so plugging me into a navicomp was a brilliant idea. Also, I like shooting stuff. I, er, don't suppose you need anyone shot? Shooting stuff is fun!"

"What would have happened to us if the co-pilot was gone?"

"Pretty much the same thing as happened ten minutes ago, except instead of me enabling VTOL I'd have been able to provide you with a complete set of diagnostic reports spanning the time between my interfacing with the navicomp and the moment of our impact. Ten whole seconds of meaningless data. Are you sure there's nothing you want killed?"

Gun ditches us in a lake, where a slowed descent and murky green water somewhat compensate for 8005''s collapsed landing gear, making fer a soft if soggy landing. It's hard work carrying everything out the airlock, especially for a guy with a heavy-as-hell lump of scrap dangling from his knee. You'd think wading would make things easier-buoyancy and all that-but bionic prosthetics got more in common with anchors than flotation devices. Every step I lug that sucker to shore I curse the day Claptrap rolled off the production line.

Maggie swims back after making camp. Ship's half submerged by this point, slowly settling into the sillt, but she comes back with Insta-Heals, Nuke-A-Meals, insulation blankets, stuff in case of emergencies. "Found a dinghy," she says, emptying her loot on the ground. "Punctured by the looks of it. Wouldn't keep us afloat anyways."

"It would you."

"Too late now. Speaking of, sun's coming down. You in the mood fer collecting firewood?"

In the wake of the storm most of the wood's damp, but between us we find enough dry kindling to light a fire with a salvaged flare. We got weapons, such as they are, but flames'll keep the local fauna at bay 'til morning. Best to conserve ammo in case something more vicious shows up.

Sun's dipped below the horizon by the time we settle in. No buildings in any particular direction, and neither one of us is in much of a fit state to travel without aim. No sign of the _Terminus_, neither; guess the jump drive finally kicked in.

"Any idea where we's at?" she says.

Greenery, marshland, reeds thick as your wrist. Picturesque though it may be, this ain't Aegrus.

"Beats me. Way things is goin' we're prob'ly somewhere far from civilisation where locals have a taste for human flesh."

"That's the spirit. Positivity."

Stiff fart'd put out our campfire. Warm my hands anyways, best I can.

"Well I'm sorry, Maggie May, but with all I bin through in the past few days there ain't much room in my soul for positive thoughts."

"Really? 'Cause back on the ship, when I was feelin' negative . . ." Her thoughts dangle on her lip, 'fore she sucks 'em back in. "Never mind.

"No, say it."

"You seemed . . . diff'rent. I thought you'd changed. But now we're here, I see you're the same as ever."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

She sighs, shivers. Temperature's dropping; good job she found that blanket. "I don't wanna fight right now, not when lord knows what is waitin' in the shadows."

"Well then. How do you propose we occupy ourselves?"

"I dunno. Tell me 'bout your recent escapades, 'all you say you bin through'. Tell me what you was doin' while I was cryo"

So I go over it, highlighting certain moments, leaving others out. Given her reaction last time it's probably best not to tell her I got killed again.

Most folks just don't get it, anyways.

"Whew," she says when I'm done. "Some story."

"Ain't a story if it's true."

"Sure it is. _His_ story. Hist'ry. Get it?"

"I guess." Moon's up. Always is, I s'pose. "The _Terminus_-you think it had any more lifeboats, or transports, or parachutes or . . . or some other way of escape."

She reaches over, puts a hand on my arm. Fire's getting up, now. Don't look quite so pitiful.

"Sorry 'bout yer friend," she says, and there's real sympathy there, real . . . _humanity._ "Believe me, I know: it's a real ass-ache bein' let down by someone you trust. So . . ."

Flames flickers on her lashes. Night's dark wraps round her like a cloak.

She screws up her eyes as if the words won't come if she watches. "Thank you," she says.

"For what?"

She opens them again. Cornflower blue in the dead of night. "Coming back for me."

The words that broke the Bloodshot dam. Seconds later I'm in tears, and it ain't sadness, oh no.

This here's _hilarity_, far too bitter to swallow.

My sudden laughter catches her by surprise-which makes it all the funnier. Not only do I gotta deal with the foolishness dribbling from her mouth, now I gotta look at her cow-eyed expression.

"I didn't board the ship t'find _you_." The truth emerges between peals of wanton uproariousness. Pretty as the day she is, but damn it if Maggie May don't look like a dumbass right now. "I came to find the _baby_."

"You _what?"_

"Junior! It's hard enough as it is being raised on Pandora, and you were gonna entrust that poor child's future to _Loggins?_" Laughter hits again, furious as a stubbed toe. "Month ago I heard firsthand that asshole paid a bunch of Vault Hunters to set fire to a goddamned _volleyball court_ just 'cause his airmen kicked him off their team. Oh, he _says_ they kicked him off their flight squad, that's the truth as he knows it. But you shoulda seen him play! The guy couldn't spike for _shit!_"

Her lips peel back from her teeth. "Now hold on just a minute . . ."

"No, _you_ hold on. I don't know much 'bout volleyball, and I know even less 'bout flyin', but I know Junior deserved a better Pa than some traitorous piece of shit who wasn't willing to get his own hands dirty in the name of vengeance."

"Which is why he had _me_ to look after him. Or don't you think a woman's capable of raising a son on her own?"

"I'll tell you," I says. "I'll tell you 'bout _my _mother, Miss Maggie May. I'll tell you how that bee-eye-tee-see-aitch switched me black 'n' blue every day 'fore I got too old fer it, an' how my daddy got his arm blowed off while she was too busy suckin' Mr. Morris's weiner to care. I'll tell you how she 'n' Mr. Morris took off, leavin' switching duties to _a man with a bionic arm,_ and how the ship they took was shot to shit by bandits and left to rust in the desert. Those was the same bandits, the _very_ same bandits I brought with me when I came to rescue your boy. Breeg, my best friend in the whole danged universe, he killed my mother, understand? He killed her and I hated him fer so long its like all the venom dried up my veins. I'd have nightmares 'bout him, these long falling dreams and I'd wake up screamin' only there wouldn't be anyone to scream _to._ An' I put that all aside, just so your kid, your _Junior,_ who you didn't even give birth to by the by, just so he wouldn't suffer the same goddamned fate as me. Pandora'll _do_ that to a kid. Ain't just the bandits it gets into. Me. You. Loggins. Boy deserved a better chance."

Oh she's angry, so furious any creature hiding in the dark would turned tail and skit.

"Why'd you think I was desperate to get him off planet in the first place?" she says. "You think I'm dumb, dummy old ugly Maggie May, that it? I ain't so frail, D.P.-don't you dare think I am-and I'm sure as hell not so stupid as to trust _Loggins _to be Junior's father. I mean, I _shot_ him. Don't that count fer something?"

Funny how things slip your mind in a rage. "I guess it does."

"An' I'm sorry 'bout your upbringing. But I ain't your mother, nor your father neither. I'm my own person, D.P. But you'd have to have the brains of a turd not to realise on Pandora even the best folks need all the help they can get. That means leanin' on my sack of shit ex to get me an' my boy somewhere, better believe I'm gonna lean. An' if that means you an' me gotta work towards the same goal . . ."

"Then we do."

"Yeah," she says. "No matter how mad I am at you right now, we do. Just do me a favour: don't mention Junior not bein' mine again. I shot one asswipe in cold blood. Don't take much to shoot another."

We both got guns, it's true, but only when she brings it up do I notice hers trained on my mid-section.

If I was high I'd be hearing the gun's eagerness to kill.

We take shifts, make it through the night. Creatures prowl real close, but I hear 'em more'n see 'em, and when I _do_ seem 'em it's only their eyes glinting then vanishing into the night.

At daybreak Maggie May goes back to 8005. She's had a thought, she says.

"Emergency ECHO. Should be in there somewhere."

"Won't that bring Hyperion down on our hides if we activate it?"

"Amount of times they already tracked us it's not like they need a signal. Keep it warm fer me. I'll be back."

But she isn't, not for a good long time. Fire burns low once or twice but I stoke it back up, our pile of firewood diminishing every passing hour. Getting antsy by the time she returns, bedraggled an' shivering. She wraps the blanket 'round her, sits close to the fire to dry off.

"No ECHO?"

"Damaged in the crash-in a waterproof baggie and everything. But Gun said the ship's distress beacon was functional, so I got him to hijack it. Logged into the Hyperion Network to see what's what. You never told me I was dead."

"Y'never asked. So is help comin' or are we gonna have to build us a homestead?"

"Well, if the beacon's on Hyperion'll be on their way soon enough. That aside, yeah, I contacted help." She shudders.

"Find anything on Junior?"

"His reports're just as falsified as mine. One says he's in transit, another says he's in cryo, still another says he's back on that space station you escaped from. Could be anywhere, damn their eyes."

"S_omeone's_ gotta know where he is. Two someones at least: Handsome Jack . . ."

". . . and that asshole Veden."

"So we politely ask 'em where he's."

"Oh, sure, we'll just knock on Jack's door, ask if he minds us searchin' his hypermansion for a bassinet."

"Not exactly_._ We raid it."

She sighs, sorta slumps right into herself. "D.P., I know yer tryin' to be helpful but that's a satchel full of dumb. Raid Jack's private abode? That's the kind of idea belongs with Roland's Rescue Rangers, not folks like us. Naw, Veden's our best bet. He sicced you on me in the first place; repayin' that favour's the least I can do."

"What _is_ the deal 'tween you and Veden?"

"You know," she says, smiling a little. "That's a damned good question."

Time passes. Way she's holdin' her hand to the flame you'd think she was making s'mores.

"Well? Gonna answer it?"

"Don't have to if I don't want to. Anyway, what about you? Guy seems mighty interested in you for someone under the pretence he's uninvolved."

I'm about to say it's coincidence, that the only reason I entered Veden's sights is 'cause he hired me to get to her. I mean, heck, his name never struck me as holding any importance 'til Maggie May recognised it-and even then, wasn't 'til I was out cold in a space station that I heard it again.

Instead I says: "Whatever he wants, it's a mystery to me. Ain't like he put a hit on _me._"

"But his name was thrown about in conjunction with your abduction, was it not?"

"Doctor Hinge said he worked for Handsome Jack. Said he was his flunkie."

"Flunkie in charge of finding whatever was in your head."

"The other one, Doctor Q, she said . . . " But it's hard to remember all them words, much less find meanin' in them. "I forget what it was, but they was talking about magnets, and somethin' about some kind of party. Only she said it all funny, like in a funny accent, even though she didn't have no particular accent. _Parrotty_. Like there was a bird in my head."

"Bird brain, more like." She laughs. Sounds like bells. "As fer me, let's just say Veden was the first link on a long chain of mistakes. Don't remember too much else about him. Maybe if we ask nice, they'll help us out."

"Who?"

"Them," she says, and nods to the bruise-coloured horizon where some manner of vehicle is heading in our direction. "The cavalry."

"Oh c'mon," I says. "_Them?_ I thought you hated those guys as much as me!"

"I do," she says. "That is, I didn't want to get involved with them. Things has a way of going south with _them _around. They ain't exactly cautious; it's like, to them, everything . . ."

". . . is a game, yeah, I know." I run the words 'round my mouth, spit 'em on the ground, and for just a second the thing in my head's grin falters, only to come back tenfold.

_Sport, if the other me could see what I'm seeing now, I assure you he'd be proud of us both._

"Of all the people in all the world," I says, standing best I can. "Roland's Rescue Rangers."

"They was the only folks within range."

"Well then," I says. "Let's you and me go hang out with some do-gooders for a change."


End file.
